LOST  VALLEY 

•8? 


LOST  VALLEY  A  Novel  by. 
Katharine  Fullerton  Gerould 

Author  of  "Vain  Oblations"  "The  Great  Tradition"  etc. 


Harper    &    Brothers    Publishers 
New   York   and    London  MCMXXII 


LOST  VALLEY 

Copyright,  1922,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 


LOCKERBY  BLOOD 


BOOK  H 
THE  OTHER  HALF  OF  TADDEO     . 


494505 


£377 
Jt 


BOOK  in 
,  THE  DULCIMER  .......  *••    -    •  .  •»•«••    •    •    231 

BOOK  IV 
THE  WAY  THAT  CAN  BE  WALKED  UPON      .....    347 


LOST  VALLEY 


LOST  VALLEY 

Book  I 
LOCKERBY  BLOOD, 

CHAPTER  ONE 

T  OST  BROOK  rises  out  of  Lost  Pond  and  flows  through 
J— ^  Lost  Valley.  It  emerges  at  the  foot  of  the  valley 
and  after  some  windings  joins  its  slender  strength  to  the 
sturdier  volume  of  the  Mohican.  Twenty  miles  below 
Lost  Valley,  the  Mohican — and  by  inclusion  Lost  Brook — 
becomes  water  power,  and  takes  on  commercial  value,  in 
connection  with  huge  cotton  mills.  But  in  Lost  Valley 
the  waters  are  of  no  use  to  anyone  except  children  and 
cattle.  The  brook  is  beautiful — so  is  the  valley,  and  so 
are  the  surrounding  foothills — but  beauty  counts  not  at 
all  to  the  Valley  dwellers.  Most  of  them  have  never  seen 
a  flat  plain,  or  the  ocean,  or  a  crowded  city;  and  they 
have  had  no  visual  contrasts  to  emphasize  for  them  the 
loveliness  of  what  they  have  been  born  to. 

A  hundred,  fifty,  twenty  years  ago,  the  pure  New 
England  stock  still  bred  true  in  Lost  Valley;  and  earlier 
generations  were  not  blind  to  beauty.  They  built  their 
farmhouses  and  their  barns  strong  against  the  winter 
storms;  they  planted  their  orchards  and  their  windbreaks 
with  a  fine  symmetry;  and  their  stone  walls  meandered 
with  exactitude,  according  to  the  lines  of  ancient  bound 
aries.  Three  miles  over  the  pass  to  Siloam  was  not  too  far 

1 


LOST.  t 


i>  aiid  the  district  school  in  the  Valley  was 
always  full.  But  youth  followed  the  Gleam.  Ambition 
stirred  in  the  hearts  of  healthy  boys  and  girls.  Because 
no  one  could  bring  the  treasures  of  the  world  to  Lost 
Valley,  they  left  the  Valley  to  seek  those  treasures.  Most 
of  them  never  came  back,  except  to  bury  their  dead. 
They  made  names  for  themselves  outside  —  and  forgot. 
America  was  learning  luxury;  was  learning  competition 
and  the  ways  of  high  finance;  was  learning  social  com 
plications  and  the  lore  of  Europe;  was  learning  politics 
on  a  big  scale  and  the  infinite  possibilities  of  exploitation, 
whether  of  the  soil  or  of  human  strength  —  gold  and  cop 
per,  vast  wheatfields,  and  tons  of  immigrant  flesh  and 
blood  that  constituted  "labor."  The  Gleam  took  them 
far  from  Lost  Valley,  though  it  was  not  always  the  gleam 
of  gold.  Amos  Leningwell's  son,  raising  wheat  on  three 
thousand  Kansas  acres,  would  never  return  to  the  back- 
breaking  task  of  pulling  stones  out  of  the  ten-acre  lot  on 
the  slope  of  Roundtop;  Daniel  Burton's  grandson,  in  his 
Paris  studio,  recked  little  of  Lost  Valley,  which  he  had 
never  seen.  Phoebe  Mellen  might  long  sometimes  for 
spring  in  the  Valley,  but  she  would  not  come  back  to  look 
at  it.  She  would  rather  live  in  her  hall  bedroom  on  Pinck- 
ney  Street  and  save  her  money  for  a  trip  to  California 
before  she  was  fifty. 

John  Lawrence,  the  railroad  magnate,  never  forgot  the 
farm  where  he  was  born.  That  memory  was  the  one  soft 
spot  in  John's  heart.  But  when  he  crossed  a  third  of  the 
continent  to  go  back  to  Lost  Valley  for  his  sixtieth  birth 
day  (in  spite  of  the  petulant  wonderment  of  his  wife)  he 
gave  up  his  vague  and  grandiose  schemes  of  benefaction. 
There  was  no  one  left  to  do  for;  thrift  had  departed, 
vitality  had  ebbed  from  the  Valley;  the  stone  walls  were 
gap-toothed,  and  the  barns  had  sagged.  His  keen  eye  saw 
no  future  for  the  stony  pastures  and  all  that  inaccessible 


LOST  VALLEY 

loveliness.  The  railroad  could  never  come  any  nearer; 
neither  industrially  nor  agriculturally  could  the  place  be 
used;  progress  lay  away  from  Lost  Valley,  and  always 
would  so  lie.  Its  prime  was  of  the  years  when  communi 
ties  could  be  self-contained  and  self-sufficing.  It  could 
never  play  a  part  in  the  new  era  of  intricate  commercial 
interdependence. 

He  stood  by  the  topmost  fragment  of  the  wall  that  had 
once  marked  every  inch  of  the  boundary  between  his 
grandfather's  land  and  Amos  Leffingwell's,  and  gazed, 
brooding,  down  on  the  valley.  The  brook  went  its  lovely, 
rippling  way,  and  the  sun  accumulated  a  showy  retinue 
of  clouds;  the  red  wall  of  the  district  school  was  a  glory. 
A  lump  rose  in  John  Lawrence's  throat.  He  had  loved  the 
place  unreasonably  much;  loved  it  as  some  men  love  some 
women.  He  had  not  lived  for  it;  he  had  made  no  sacri 
fices  for  it;  he  had  given  it  no  part  to  play  in  his  own  Me. 
But  he  had  kept  his  vision  of  it  bright  and  untainted,  and 
he  had  looked  to  it  for  a  welcome  and  a  haven.  Men,  as 
I  say,  sometimes  love  a  woman  in  that  way,  promising 
her  a  secret  loyalty,  the  rusty  key  of  a  hidden  chamber, 
if  she  will  only  wait,  unchanged  and  unswerving,  while 
they  live  their  lives.  John  Lawrence  was  too  honest- 
minded  to  reproach  his  birthplace  with  its  unfitness  for 
the  role  he  had  dreamed  for  it.  But  he  saw  with  pain 
that  he  could  not  bring  to  it  the  peculiar  tribute  which 
he  had  planned,  or  draw  it  into  the  wake  of  his  successful 
progress.  As  a  woman  fades  and  ages  while  she  is  wait 
ing,  even  so  with  Lost  Valley. 

I  speak  of  John  Lawrence  at  length,  and  with  such 
explicitness,  because  he  alone  tried  to  pay  his  debt.  Even 
John  Lawrence  could  not  do  that,  and  his  latter  years 
were  subtly  saddened  by  what  the  Valley  had  come  to. 
It  had  been  left,  without  preservatives,  to  decay;  it  had 
acquired,  to  the  full,  the  melancholy  fashion  of  the  remoter 

3 


LOST  VALLEY 

* 

eastern  countrysides.  The  fresh  blood  had  been  with 
drawn.  The  maimed,  the  halt,  the  blind  were  left.  In 
breeding  of  the  weakened  and  dwindling  stock  rapidly 
developed  subnormal  creatures  who,  in  their  turn,  by 
sordid  and  tragic  accidents,  reproduced  their  sorrowful 
kind.  No  one  drove  over  the  pass  to  Siloam  church, 
these  days;  the  district  school  was  strangely  served. 
Children  were  fewer,  and  they  were  frail  and  tainted. 
No  one  taught  there  for  more  than  a  winter.  The 
commissioners  stretched  their  energies  to  the  utmost 
to  keep  the  school  going  as  long  as  there  was  visible 
need.  But  after  all  it  was  clear  that  Lost  Valley, 
already  moribund,  would  presently  die,  quite;  and  then 
there  would  be  no  need  of  a  school.  Theoretically, 
transportation  should  have  been  furnished  for  the  children 
to  go  to  Siloam  or  even  Barker's  Creek,  but  it  was  hardly 
worth  while.  Most  of  them  had  old  people  to  look  after, 
some  of  them  no  brains  to  learn  lessons  with.  Once, 
folk  had  left  Lost  Valley  for  the  outer  world;  now  no  one 
left  it,  living,  except  for  the  poor  farm,  and  against  that 
the  denizens  fought  with  all  their  crazy  strength.  It  came 
to  be  the  unwritten  law  that  so  long  as  the  inhabitants 
could  scratch  a  meager  living  out  of  the  soil,  and  get 
through  the  winter  without  freezing  to  death,  they  should 
be  left  to  rot  in  peace,  and  any  younger  people  who 
lingered  might  care  for  the  older  ones  without  being  too 
much  molested  in  the  interest  of  their  own  education  and 
development.  The  township  was  waiting  for  Lost  Valley 
to  die,  and  interfered  only  on  the  hint  of  tragedy. 

All  this,  John  Lawrence  learned  at  the  hotel  in  Siloam 
before  he  drove  over  the  pass.  He  wanted,  however, 
to  see  for  himself,  and  he  spent  three  unhappy  hours 
in  the  locality  of  his  birth.  He  looked  down  on  its 
beauty,  and  it  wrung  his  heart.  He  wanted  to  gather 
Lost  Valley  into  his  arms  and  cherish  it.  But  his  prac- 


LOST  VALLEY 

ticed  eye  told  him  it  was  too  far  gone;  and  there  were  no 
natural  advantages  there  to  tempt  new  blood.  His 
monument  of  filial  piety  must  be  erected  far  off  in  a  new 
country:  a  cenotaph,  not  a  tomb. 

Silas  Mann,  who  drove  Lawrence  over — fifty  years 
before,  Silas  and  John  had  kicked  each  other's  shins  in 
Siloam  Sabbath  school — gave  him  the  melancholy  chron 
icle  as  they  went.  Silas  was  not,  like  John,  a  Valley  boy, 
and  he  spoke  without  prejudice,  while  John  winced.  From 
him,  even  before  Lost  Brook  glimmered  below  them, 
Lawrence  learned  of  the  fates  attaching  to  many  familiar 
names:  Burtons,  Leffingwells,  Mellens,  Lockerbys,  and 
Breens.  Death  had  taken  many,  of  course,  and  others, 
who  had  left  the  countryside,  were  "said  to  be"  every 
where  between  Boston  and  Frisco.  One  of  Reuben 
Lockerby's  sons  had  stayed.  He  had  taken  up  with  a  girl 
from  Connecticut  who  taught  school  for  a  year.  Old 
Ma'am  Lockerby,  Jim's  mother,  was  left,  and  two  grand 
children.  Ma'am  Lockerby  wa'n't  quite  right  in  her 
mind,  and  maybe  it  was  just  as  well  Jim  Lockerby  went 
when  he  did.  His  wife — the  school-teacher — had  died 
early,  leaving  him  a  girl,  Madge.  Nice  girl  too,  he 
guessed.  Jim — well,  Jim  always  was  a  rough  critter  with  a 
queer  streak,  and — well,  the  fact  of  it  was  he  had  another 
daughter  by  a  Valley  girl:  Jim's  first  cousin,  he  guessed, 
and  she  was  kind  o'  half-witted.  Old  Ma'am  Locker 
by  looked  after  them,  some  fashion,  with  the  neighbors  to 
help,  but  she'd  been  failin'  steady  for  years,  and  now  she 
had  to  be  looked  after.  There  was  Andrew  Lockerby, 
who'd  broke  his  leg  long  ago — Madge's  uncle.  He  come 
back  after  Jim  died,  and  he  did  what  was  done  on  the 
farm,  with  a  Leffingwell  boy  to  help.  Jim  Lockerby  had 
broke  his  neck  one  night,  'long  of  being  drunk.  The  girl 
he'd  had  Lola  by,  she  died  of  consumption.  Lola  *d 
never  been  right,  either — no  brighter  than  her  mother. 

5 


LOST  VALLEY 

But  they  said  Madge  looked  after  her  sister  something 
wonderful,  and  was  terrible  fond  of  her.  Madge  was 
pretty,  but  nothing  like  so  pretty  as  Lola,  he'd  heard. 
Madge  came  over  to  Siloam  now  and  then,  with  Andrew, 
to  trade;  but  they  didn't  none  of  them  go  to  church. 
Old  Ma'am  Lockerby  was  mad  as  a  coot.  When  her  bad 
fits  come  on,  they'd  lock  her  up.  Then,  rest  o'  the  time, 
she'd  be  like  a  three-year-old  child,  and  she'd  sit  round 
with  a  rag  doll  and  they'd  feed  her  spoon  meat.  He, 
Silas,  didn't  see  the  Valley  folks  much,  but  they  all  said 
Madge  was  mighty  good  to  her  family.  Kind  o'  hard 
on  a  girl  like  that — he'd  heard  tell  she  was  quite  facultied. 
Andrew  had  hard  work  to  make  both  ends  meet,  but  he 
kept  'em  from  starving  anyhow.  Did  their  own  killing 
and  lived  on  garden  sass,  and  Madge  bought  clothes  out 
o'  the  butter  money.  She  wa'n't  more  'n  nineteen,  and 
Lola  about  fifteen,  he  reckoned.  Silas  never  saw  Andrew 
except  when  he  came  into  Benner's  store,  and  once  a  year 
drove  over  to  vote.  Silas  hadn't  seen  old  Ma'am  Lockerby 
for  years.  It  was  that  way  with  the  chief  part  of  the  Val 
ley  folks.  Mostly  bedridden,  or  feeble-minded.  But 
they'd  screech  if  you  tried  to  take  'em  out  of  the  Valley 
and  make  'em  comfortable. 

This  was  the  epic  of  the  Lockerbys.  There  was  an  epic 
of  the  Leffingwells,  to  match;  a  picturesque  account  of 
the  wandering  Mellens;  a  black  tale  of  the  Breens.  John 
Lawrence  was  sick  at  heart  as  they  reached  the  top  of 
the  pass  and  looked  down  into  his  Valley.  The  remem 
bered  beauty  of  it,  made  manifest  again,  hurt  him. 
He  had  known  for  many  years  just  how  the  sun  would 
strike,  how  the  shadows  would  lie,  and  just  where  the 
brook  would  twist  out  of  the  verdure  and  take  the  light. 
He  had  known  that  he  would  lift  his  eyes  at  last  from 
Lost  Brook  and  the  scattered  farmsteads,  and  see  Bar 
ker's  Hill  fronting  him,  purple  in  the  rifted  shadows, 
6 


LOST  VALLEY 

richest  green  on  the  upward  slopes.  He  had  held  his 
heart  empty  and  eager,  all  the  years,  to  be  filled  with  the 
sight.  And  just  as  he  had  remembered  and  foreseen,  so 
it  was.  The  brook  glinted,  and  then  blurred,  in  his  eyes* 
at  the  turn  where,  for  fifty  years,  the  Leffingwell  cows 
had  come  down  to  drink.  Staring  down  from  Roundtop, 
he  saw  straight  into  the  deep  enameled  cup  of  the  Valley, 
and  something  in  his  heart  went  dead  forever  to  know 
that  the  cup  held  corruption  to  his  lips. 

He  was  not  minded,  however,  to  drive  back  to  Siloam 
without  descending  into  the  settlement.  He  turned  to 
Silas  Mann. 

"  Si,  I  want  to  stretch  my  legs  a  little — walk  round  and 
look  at  some  of  the  trees  I  cut  my  name  on  when  I  was  a 
little  shaver.  And  the  old  farm — I  sold  it  when  father 
died,  but  I  hanker  for  a  look  at  it."  He  spoke  grimly, 
to  conceal  his  passion. 

Silas  Mann  nodded.  "So  do,  John,  so  do.  I'll  drive 
round  to  the  Lockerby  place  and  water  the  hosses.  When 
you  git  ready,  you  come  over  there,  and  we'll  start  back. 
I'll  drop  you  down  at  the  crossroads  near  the  Breen 
place.  Then  you'll  be  kind  of  in  the  midst  o'  things." 

John  Lawrence  made  his  pilgrimage — even  to  the  bat 
tered  barns  that  had  been  his  father's.  He  prowled 
about  the  pastures,  and  looked  down  on  the  house  of  his 
birth.  At  first,  he  had  thought  of  entering.  Being  a 
Lawrence  should  have  been  a  sufficient  password  in  Lost 
Valley.  But  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  it.  The 
walls,  unpainted  these  many  years,  were  a  diseased, 
anaemic  drab,  and  sagged  perilously.  The  chimney  had 
been  shored  up  with  rubble,  and  the  pigs  encroached  on 
what  had  been  his  mother's  garden.  Some  ragged  clothes 
were  drying  on  a  line,  almost  above  the  pigsty.  An 
indescribable  air  of  filth  hung  about  the  wind-swept  place. 
He  would  have  thought  tramps  had  got  in,  if  he  had 
2  7 


LOST  VALLEY 

not  known  from  his  deed  of  sale  that  they  were  Finches. 
He  had  never  seen  so  many  broken  things  at  once — 
rusted  harrows  and  plows,  tubs  and  barrels,  junk  of  every 
kind.  Apparently  when  any  utensil  gave  out,  the  Finches 
simply  flung  it  into  the  yard. 

John  Lawrence  smiled  bitterly  as  he  admitted  to  him 
self  in  the  heat  of  irony  many  things  he  had  never  formally 
acknowledged.  The  New  Englander  is  easily  trans 
planted;  but  it  is  hard  to  kill  in  him  his  Chinese  sense  of 
ancestral  pieties.  John  Lawrence  had  an  honest  mind; 
and  in  the  full  rush  of  his  disappointment,  he  knew  that 
his  plans  had  been  flimsily  built  on  a  substructure  of 
illusion:  that  Lost  Valley  was  doomed  in  spite  of  him; 
and  that  were  he  twenty  again,  he  would  leave  Lost 
Valley  just  as  he  had  done. 

He  turned  his  back  on  the  Finch  place,  and  made  his 
way  across  the  fields,  avoiding  the  patches  of  fodder  and 
field  corn,  following  the  straggling  paths  the  cattle  had 
made  and  scrupulously  using  their  breaches  in  the  walls. 
He  knew  the  old  Lockerby  place.  He  remembered 
Ma'am  Lockerby  when  she  was  a  dashing  young  beauty, 
always  the  last  one  on  her  feet  at  a  spelling  bee.  He  had 
stood  in  great  awe  of  her — older  than  he,  handsome, 
clever,  and  an  accomplished  flirt.  What  was  it  Si  Mann 
had  said  about  her?  He  shivered  a  little. 

Lawrence  came  down  the  lower  slope  of  Barker's  Hill  at 
a  swinging  pace.  A  young  heifer  came  out  of  a  group  of 
thorn  bushes  and  sniffed  at  him  mildly.  Mechanically 
he  felt  in  the  pocket  of  his  well-cut  coat  for  salt.  There 
had  not  been  salt  in  his  pockets  since  he  had  shed  his 
overalls — folding  them  up  neatly,  laying  them  on  the 
edge  of  his  little  cot  under  the  eaves,  while  his  mother, 
below  stairs,  was  waiting  for  him  and  trying  not  to 
cry. 

He  hoped  Si  was  ready  to  start.  He  did  not  want  to 
8 


LOST  VALLEY 

see  Ma'am  Lockerby.    And  if  there  was  a  train  out  that 
night  from  Siloam,  he  would  take  it. 

Luckily  for  John  Lawrence,  he  did  not  see  Ma'am  Lock 
erby,  who  was  having  one  of  her  bad  spells.  Andrew, 
supporting  himself  by  a  horse  block,  was  talking  to  Silas 
Mann  about  crops.  Lawrence  introduced  himself  awk 
wardly.  He  explained  his  hurry,  and  Si,  looking  at  him 
shrewdly,  began  without  a  word  to  gather  up  the  reins 
and  speak  to  the  horses. 

"I  wonder  if  I  could  have  a  glass  of  water?"  John  asked 
weakly.  He  was  no  longer  used  to  scrambling  about  hill 
sides,  and  while  he  kept  the  fine,  lean  lines  of  his  race, 
his  heart  was  not  what  it  used  to  be. 

Andrew  Lockerby  stopped  whittling  a  stick.  "Madge!" 
he  called  over  his  shoulder. 

The  girl  appeared.  The  faded  blue  of  her  cotton  dress 
became  her  admirably.  Shading  her  eyes  from  the  wester 
ing  sun  with  a  peanut-straw  hat,  she  looked  at  her  uncle, 
Silas  Mann,  and  the  stranger.  John  Lawrence  gave  her 
back  stare  for  gentle  stare.  Her  shoes,  too  large  for  her, 
were  down  at  heel,  her  clothes  scanty,  her  hair  awkwardly 
though  neatly  done.  But  she  was  straight,  if  overslender; 
firmly  and  gracefully,  if  a  thought  meagerly  built;  and  she 
held  her  head  as  a  woman  should  hold  it.  Her  hair,  with 
proper  hairpins,  would  be  beautiful;  and  her  complexion 
was  the  complexion  John  remembered,  in  Valley  beauties, 
in  his  youth.  Her  eyebrows  were  firmly  arched  over  her 
brown  eyes;  the  curve  of  the  nostril  was  proud.  Law 
rence  gazed  at  her,  drinking  in  the  sight  of  Madge  Lockerby 
like  cool  well  water.  This  was  Valley  stock,  when  it  bred 
true!  He  forgot  the  desecrating  Finches. 

"Mr.  Lawrence  here  used  to  live  up  at  Finches'  place,"1 
commented  Andrew  dully.  "He'd  like  a  drink." 

"Water?  Or  would  you  like  some  buttermilk?  ItV 
cool  down  in  the  cellar." 


LOST  VALLEY 

Her  voice  was  like  balm  to  John  Lawrence's  stabbed 
senses.  Her  speech  was  colorless  enough,  and  there  was 
the  hint  of  nasality  that  New  England  has  hard  work  to 
rid  itself  of;  but  beyond  that  there  was  something  that 
made  him  think  of  the  brook  in  spring — a  sudden  un 
conscious  melodic  slide  in  the  syllables,  something  you 
could  wait  for,  and  thrill  to  when  it  came.  And  this  was 
Valley  stock — with  half  a  chance.  His  father  would 
have  liked  Jim  Lockerby's  girl. 

"Oh,  buttermilk,  if  I  can  have  it,*'  he*  answered,  half 
awkwardly.  "Thank  you." 

Before  Madge  Lockerby  turned  to  re-enter  the  house, 
another  figure  joined  her.  So  silently  did  the  younger 
girl  slip  into  place  in  the  doorway  that  it  was  as  if  a  pic 
ture  had  suddenly  shifted  its  composition  a  little.  With 
no  sound  she  had  stolen  thither,  and  rose,  manifest, 
beside  Madge.  Then  John  Lawrence's  heart  leaped, 
indeed,  for  the  sisters  completed  each  other.  Madge 
breathed  the  spirit  and  strength  of  the  Valley;  but  Lola 
(it  must  be  Lola)  had  the  heartbreaking,  nonhuman 
delicacy  of  a  Botticelli  child.  Her  gaze  was  rapt;  she 
seemed  to  be  listening,  in  her  divine  immaturity,  to 
celestial  shawms  and  psalteries.  She  took  his  breath 
away.  Then  he  was  forced  to  realize  that  the  eyes,  too 
wide  apart,  were  vacant;  that  their  periwinkle  blue  ex 
pressed  no  thought;  that  another  hand  must  have  plaited 
her  hair  so  neatly;  and  that  what  seemed  the  artless 
wonder  of  a  saintly  child  was  the  painful,  abortive  cere 
bration  of  a  half-wit.  The  Valley,  triumphant  one  last 
time  in  Madge,  had  bowed  to  its  doom  in  Lola.  In  a  few 
years,  when  mere  bodily  beauty  was  gone  or  marred, 
she  would  be  a  thing  to  flee  from.  The  inward  disease 
would  wreak  itself  upon  the  flesh.  Even  now,  one  mo 
ment's  contemplation  was  enough.  You  saw  the  break 
down  coming.  But  just  there  in  the  door,  by  her  darker 
10 


LOST  VALLEY 

sister  she  made  an  unforgetable  vision — as  if  the  Manger 
of  the  Gospel  had  been  under  that  lowly  roof. 

Madge  put  an  arm  about  her  sister.  "Come,  Lola,"  she 
said  gently,  "we'll  get  some  buttermilk  for  Mr.  Mann's 
friend."  She  drew  the  child  back  into  the  shadows  of  the 
kitchen. 

When  Madge  Lockerby  came  back  with  the  buttermilk, 
she  left  Lola  within. 

John  Lawrence,  who  longed  so  desperately  to  bring 
tribute  of  gold  to  Lost  Valley,  knew  that  money  here 
would  be  amiss.  So  he  paid  with  courtesy.  "Thank  you 
very  much."  The  words  were  simple  enough,  but  the 
voice  seemed  to  crown  her.  She  straightened  a  little  to 
the  homage  of  his  tone,  her  whole  womanhood  subtly 
strengthened  within  her  by  the  manner  of  his  address. 
Some  atavistic  sense  in  Madge  Lockerby  linked  his 
courtesy  with  books  she  had  read,  and  told  her  that  some 
where,  out  of  Lost  Valley,  women  were  spoken  to  thus. 
Then  she  drooped  again,  and  hardly  knew  that  for  an 
instant  the  familiar  burden  had  been  lifted. 

"I  had  forgotten,"  he  said,  "how  beautiful  Lost  Valley 
was.  Or,  rather,  I  had  remembered — and  remembered 
right." 

Madge  Lockerby  did  not  smile.  "Yes,"  she  said 
quietly,  "it's  beautiful.  In  summer."  The  same  shadows 
that  were  deepening  over  Roundtop  seemed  to  darken 
her  face. 

At  the  top  of  the  pass  Silas  Mann  stopped  to  breathe 
the  horses,  and  Lawrence  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm.  "I'm 
going  to  get  out  a  minute  and  take  a  picture." 

Si  nodded. 

Lawrence  walked  to  a  flat  bowlder  and  looked  down  on 
the  valley  radiant  in  the  sun.  He  twisted  his  camera, 
sighted  carefully,  and  finally,  with  a  momentous  sigh, 
clicked  the  shutter.  He  turned  again,  took  another 

11 


'LOSTIVALLEY 

angle,  and  another,  and  at  last,  the  film  exhausted,  pock 
eted  the  camera  and  returned. 

"Sightly  place,"  grunted  Si. 

"Yes."  He  paused.  Then,  "There's  not  much  amiss 
with  Madge  Lockerby,"  he  said  quietly,  as  the  horses 
set  their  faces  to  the  woods  that  the  traveler  who  crosses 
Roundtop  must  penetrate. 

"No,"  Silas  replied.  "She'sthebest  of  thelot,and  she  has 
a  hard  row  to  hoe.  What  with  hard  times,  and  her  grand 
mother,  and  that  half-sister  o'  hers  who's  no  better  than 
an  innocent.  She  wanted  an  education,  I've  heard.  But, 
law,  you  can't  get  an  education  in  Lost  Valley,  these  days." 

"Did  she  never  have  any?" 

"She  used  to  come  over  and  get  books  from  Miss  Martin 
at  Siloam,  I  believe,  after  she  quit  school.  Sairy  Martin, 
she  had  great  notions  of  Madge's  abilities.  -  But  Mrs. 
Mann  says  Madge  gave  it  up,  'long  of  her  family.  She 
might  have  left  her  grandmother,  but  she  had  a  notion 
nobody  but  her  could  manage  Lola.  I  guess  if  Madge 
went  away,  'twouldn't  be  long  before  Lola  had  trouble 
— seein'  what  a  pretty  critter  she  is,  and  no  brains  to 
take  care  of  herself  with.  And  there's  some  young  fellers 
in  the  Valley  I  wouldn't  trust  far.  Lord,  it  don't  seem  's 
if  they  had  no  morals  left.  'Tain't  good  for  man  to  be 
alone — 'tain't  good  for  communities,  either.  They've 
kind  of  intermarried  over  there  till  they're  no  better  *n 
weakling  stock." 

John  Lawrence  replied  only  with  an  inarticulate  sound. 
Then  he  took  out  his  watch.  "Is  there  a  train  down  this 
evening?" 

"Eight-sixteen." 

"I'd  like  to  make  it  if  I  can." 

"I'll  see  you  do,  John.    I'll  see  you  do." 

Lost  Valley  was  not  referred  to  again,  and  John  Law 
rence  made  the  eight-sixteen. 
12 


CHAPTER  TWO 

ARTHUR  BURTON  looked  about  his  studio.  He 
had  come  to  the  Village  because  he  could  not  afford 
a  better  location.  At  least,  he  could  get  light  and  space 
more  cheaply  there  than  in  the  haunts  of  more  serious 
artists.  But  the  Village  bred  disgust  in  him,  and  almost 
paralyzed  his  painting  arm.  Not  that  Arthur  Burton  was 
conventional;  and  surely,  with  all  his  struggling  years  in 
the  Latin  Quarter,  he  had  learned  some  of  the  ways  of 
sordidness.  But  at  least  the  Quarter  made  short  work  of 
affectations;  and  people  like  these  who  surrounded  him 
now  went  under  very  quickly  in  that  atmosphere  which 
sheer  artistic  honesty  kept  breathable.  Arthur  would 
have  told  you  lightly  that  he  had  no  morals  in  a 
Calvinistic  sense.  He  had  gambled,  he  had  been  drunk, 
he  had  made  love  to  pretty  girls,  he  had  lied  when 
necessary,  he  had  certainly  neglected  the  first  five  Com 
mandments.  But  he  had  worked  with  all  the  power  that 
was  in  him,  and  had  kept  his  conscience  clean  in  the  mat 
ter  of  painting.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  care  enough  for 
something  to  be  austere  and  incorruptible  about  it,  and 
in  the  service  of  Art  Arthur  Burton  was  a  male  Vestal. 
He  had  come  home  partly  to  show  his  father  that  his 
small  but  regular  allowance  had  kept  him  really  alive; 
partly  to  see  if  he  could  pick  up  enough  money  in  this 
fabulous  city  of  New  York  to  stake  him,  for  years  to 
come,  in  Europe.  Young  Burton  was  not  without  such 
reputation  as  a  clever  young  man  achieves,  and  he  hoped 
eventually  to  sell  a  lot  of  stuff  at  prices  that  Paris  was 

13 


LOST  VALLEY 

too  wary,  old,  and  civilized  to  pay.  Meanwhile  he  was 
economizing  in  the  Village. 

He  was  looking  now,  as  I  have  said,  at  his  studio.  In 
spite  of  all  the  stuff  he  had  thrown  into  the  closet  and  the 
kitchenette,  it  was  untidy.  Of  course  he  ought  to  have  a 
charwoman  in  every  day,  but  in  New  York  charwomen 
were  such  great  ladies  that  he  shrank  from  committing 
himself  to  their  prices.  He  swept  the  sleeve  of  his  coat 
over  the  table  where  he  had  set  the  tea  things.  The  ges 
ture  was  very  bad  for  the  coat  sleeve,  and  did  no  appreci 
able  good  to  the  table.  He  grabbed  a  carved  chair  and 
set  it  patriarchally  at  the  head  of  the  table.  His  finger 
got  sharply  caught  between  the  clumsy  chair  arm  and  the 
table  edge,  and  he  said,  "Damn!"  Then  he  smiled  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"What's  the  dif?  I  couldn't  really  suit  the  old  boy 
with  it  if  I  slammed  things  around  for  a  week.  As  for 
the  friend  of  his  youth — the  mere  sight  of  some  of  the 
Village  fagades  will  shock  him  so  that  he'll  be  relieved  to 
find  any  place  to  sit  down.  And  I  don't  blame  him. 
Oh,  la,  la!" 

Young  Burton  stretched  himself  out  on  a  vast  battered 
davenport  and  lighted  a  cigarette.  "Anyhow,  there  is  no 
beastly  Bakst  stuff  here,"  he  murmured  to  himself.  Then, 
in  spite  of  the  imminence  of  his  incomprehensible  but 
beloved  father,  and  his  father's  unknown  friend,  his  happy 
temperament  permitted  him  to  fall  asleep.  He  was 
dozing  delightfully,  all  care  forgot,  his  waistcoat  a  pyre 
of  cigarette  ash,  when  Mr.  Burton  and  John  Lawrence 
entered. 

Lawrence,  hotfoot  from  Lost  Valley,  had  gone,  in 
New  York,  to  see  James  Burton.  Why,  it  would  be  hard 
to  say,  so  complex  was  his  motive.  Perhaps  he  had  to 
break  the  fall.  .  .  .  For  it  would  have  been  one  thing  to 
leave  his  birthplace  with  a  happy  sense  that  his  dream  for 
14 


LOST  VALLEY 

it  could  come  true.  If  he  could  have  kept  his  fine  glow, 
he  could  have  gone  back  to  Clara,  his  wife,  sustained  to 
meet  her  scorn.  But  he  would  have  to  admit  to  Clara 
that  the  home  of  his  ancestors  was  nothing  to  be  proud 
of;  and  she  would  use  that  admission  to  bolster  up  her 
own  frank  contempt  for  his  origins.  Lawrence  had  not 
married  until  he  had  "arrived'* — rather  late,  that  is  to 
say.  Clara  Weston  was  the  child  of  a  showy  urban  life. 
Her  pioneer  grandfather  was  conveniently  dead;  even 
her  father  had  not  the  stigma  of  being  self-made.  Nat 
urally  she  blinked,  as  far  as  possible,  the  fact  that  the 
stigma  might  be  said  to  rest  on  her  husband. 

But  Lawrence  could  not  take  a  final  farewell  as  coolly 
as  all  that.  What  he  could  keep,  and  stand  for,  was  the 
exquisite  natural  beauty  of  the  place  from  which  he 
sprang.  He  was  determined  to  have  Lost  Valley  painted 
for  him.  When  he  looked  up  James  Burton,  he  knew  that 
Jim's  son  was  a  landscape  artist  who  had  to  some  extent 
(even  in  Paris)  made  good.  Lawrence  never  lost  track 
of  any  virtue  that  had  come  out  of  Lost  Valley.  He  had 
a  vague  notion  that  Jim's  son  might  be  his  man.  But 
apart  from  that,  he  had  need  to  unburden  himself  to  some 
one  who  might  have  the  grace  to  be  sad  with  him.  No 
one  could  be  properly  sad  with  him  who  had  not  been 
bred  among  his  very  hills.  To  no  one  else  could  he  con 
fess  the  ruin  of  the  place. 

James  Burton  had  been  a  Valley  boy — with  a  difference. 
He  kept  no  local  piety  in  the  depths  of  his  heart.  Perhaps 
Lawrence  could  guard  his  better  by  reason  of  the  very 
distance  that  lay  between  him  and  the  ancestral  farm. 
Lawrence  had  gone  far  afield,  and  had  made  a  fortune. 
He  had  not  had  time  to  go  back,  these  many  years — until 
now.  Burton,  who  stuck  nearer,  and  who  had  not  made 
a  fortune,  had  been  back  at  intervals;  and  took  it  all  more 
calmly.  There  was  not  the  same  glamour  of  distance; 

15 


LOST  VALLEY 

and  no  abundance  of  money  wherewith  to  gild  everything, 
even  memories.  A  widower  of  long  standing,  he  had 
placed  his  romance  in  the  future  of  his  son.  He  was 
looking  forward  to  a  vicarious  success.  John  Lawrence, 
whose  success  was  attained,  looked  back. 

It  must  be  said  that  the  spectacle  of  ^Arthur  was  dis 
concerting  to  both  men.  His  father  would  certainly  have 
preferred  not  to  find  him  in  the  abandonment  of  sleep,  with 
an  ash-covered  waistcoat.  Lawrence  was  used  to  studios 
— but  to  studios  of  a  more  sophisticated  sort,  adapted  for 
formal  entertaining.  The  Village  did  not  shock  Lawrence 
in  the  way  young  Burton  had  feared,  but  he  detected  in 
it  the  shoddy  artificial  element  which  no  man  who  has 
made  good  can  bring  himself  to  respect.  He  knew  instinc 
tively  that  good  work  did  not  easily  come  out  of  such  an 
atmosphere.  His  first  glimpse  of  Arthur  Burton  did  not 
reassure  him. 

The  young  man  sprang  to  his  feet,  waked  by  the  stir 
of  their  entrance.  John  Lawrence,  being  unknown  to 
him,  did  not  perturb  him.  He  did  not  guess  that  "dad's 
friend"  might  mean  an  order.  Free,  therefore,  from  pre 
occupations  and  arriere-pensees,  he  proceeded  to  do  the 
honors.  He  seated  them  comfortably  and  made  them 
tea  with  a  practiced  hand.  He  would  not  hear  of  showing 
them  his  pictures  until  he  had  fed  and  comforted  them. 
That  would  come,  inevitably — and  if  dad's  friend  knew 
no  more  about  art  than  dad,  it  would  not  be  precisely  a 
pleasure.  Arthur  Burton  could  talk  pictures  until  three 
in  the  morning  with  the  maddest  wastrel,  if  the  wastrel 
happened  to  know;  but  he  was  austerely  intolerant  of 
amateurishness,  no  matter  in  what  respectable  guise  the 
amateur  came. 

Arthur  kept  up,  through  tea,  a  running  fire  of  fairly 
amusing  talk.  To  James  Burton  he  seemed  sadly  flip 
pant.  John  Lawrence,  through  his  cigar  smoke,  took 
16 


LOST  VALLEY 

stock  of  the  young  man,  meanwhile.  There  was  at  least 
no  pose,  he  thought;  and  his  avoidance  of  art  as  a  subject 
was  too  deliberate  not  to  mean  something.  It  might 
mean  he  had  nothing  to  show:  it  might  mean  he  thought 
his  guests  unworthy.  When  Lawrence's  watch  showed 
him  his  time  was  running  short,  he  introduced  the  subject 
himself — rising  from  the  table  and  walking  across  the 
studio  to  a  corner  where  a  pile  of  canvases  was  stacked 
against  the  wall.  He  slid  into  the  subject  easily  from  that 
of  Lost  Valley,  which  had  just  been  mentioned. 

"It's  an  extremely  beautiful  place,  where  your  father 
and  I  were  born,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  have  just  been  up 
there — after  many  years." 

Lawrence's  tone  revealed  to  Arthur  Burton  at  least 
that  the  sacred  term  of  beauty  was  not  in  this  case  lightly 
— he  thought,  probably,  not  even  unintelligently — ap 
plied.  "Yes?"  he  queried — not  just  politely,  but  intrigued 
for  the  moment.  "I  have  never  been  up  there." 

"You  ought  to  go  some  time — to  the  cradle  of  your 
race."  Lawrence  smiled.  He  could  not  speak  with  ah1 
the  emotion  that  really  moved  him,  to  this  youngster  who 
had  never  investigated  his  geographic  origins.  Yet  he 
had  more  leniency  for  Arthur  Burton  because  he  was, 
though  at  one  remove,  a  Valley  boy. 

"I'd  like  to,"  Arthur  answered  simply,  "especially 
if  it's  beautiful.  I  can  see  why  the  other  fellows  who  go 
in  for  the  human  face  find  ugliness  interesting;  but  when 
it  comes  to  Nature,  I'm  beastly  old  fashioned.  I'd 
rather  see  her  at  her  best.  Purely  a  matter  of  personal 
taste.  The  rest  of  it — the  long,  long  rest  of  it — is  tech 
nique.  One  takes  off  one's  hat  to  that,  wherever  and  who 
ever.  I  don't  say  wholly  for  painting  purposes — there's 
something  to  be  done  with  Nature  when  she's  viciously 
plain.  But  to  look  at ...  Well,  you  don't  look  at  an  ugly 
woman  for  pleasure,  do  you?  I'd  rather  contemplate 

17 


LOST  VALLEY 

the  planet  where  it  has  taken  the  trouble  to  look  its  best. 
There's  enough  beauty,  Heaven  knows !  Enough  to  make 
one  sick  of  sitting  in  this  damned  Village  where  there 
isn't  any." 

"Not  as  good  as  Paris?"  his  father  grunted. 

"Well,  hardly,  sir!  In  Paris,  people  work.  And  when 
they  need  beauty,  they  have  only  to  buy  a  third-class 
ticket  and  travel  an  hour  on  a  train.  Take  your  traps 
along,  if  you  like.  But  here,  you  have  to  go  so  far,  and 
pay  so  much — and  when  you  get  back,  instead  of  white- 
hot  intelligence  that  meets  your  problem  exactly  where 
you're  meeting  it  yourself,  you  have — well,  you  have  to 
dig  down  so  far  to  find  if  there's  any  real  intelligence 
there,  that  you've  lost  your  need  for  it  before  you  find  out. 
There  are  some  good  fellows  hereabouts:  I  must  admit 
that.  But  they're  only  on  the  wing — like  me.  And  a 
great  many  too  many  fool  women/'  he  murmured  to 
himself,  turning  away  to  light  a  cigarette. 

John  Lawrence  smiled.  "Let  him  go  back  to  Paris, 
Jim,"  he  suggested.  "He's  out  of  tune." 

Arthur  Burton  saved  his  father  the  embarrassment  of 
explaining  the  situation.  "You  couldn't  expect  dad  to 
stake  me  forever  in  a  place  he's  never  seen  and  doesn't 
much  believe  in.  It's  up  to  me,  I  think.  Certainly  I've 
no  right  to  whine.  If  I  can't  pull  myself  out,  that's  my 
fault — not  dad's.  But  I'm  going  to."  He  smiled  brightly. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Whicher?"  Lawrence  put  the 
question  as  to  an  expert. 

Arthur  screwed  up  one  eye  and  considered.  "He's  a 
very  big  man,  of  course.  Give  all  the  rest  of  us  cards  and 
spades,  and  then  some.  But — well,  if  you're  talking 
straight,  I'll  talk  straight.  I  don't  think  he's  the  man  he 
was.  He's  still  painting  what  he  painted  twenty  years 
ago.  Like  King  Charles's  head — Fontainebleau  gets  into 
everything.  Now  I  like  Fontainebleau — but  not  in  Mon- 
18 


LOST  VALLEY 

tana.  I  don't  believe  Montana  looks  in  the  least  like 
Fontainebleau.  But — I'll  be  hanged  if  I'll  say  a  word 
against  Whicher.  If  I  could  paint  Fontainebleau  like 
that,  I'd  paint  it,  you  can  bet — and  label  it  Fifth  Avenue 
at  Thirty  -fourth  Street,  if  they  wanted  me  to.  There's 
nothing  lovelier  than  a  Whicher,  whatever  you  call  it." 

Lawrence  smiled.  "Suppose  you  show  me  something 
of  yours?" 

James  Burton  moved  up  expectantly.  But  Arthur 
Burton,  whose  keen  eye  had  discovered  signs  of  success 
about  John  Lawrence's  person,  hesitated.  "If  you're 
collecting  Whichers,  sir,  my  stuff  will  look  like  junk  to 
you.  I  mean — the  taste  for  Whicher  rather  kills  anything 
else.  Quite  right,  too." 

Which  was,  so  far  as  it  went,  sincere.  Arthur  Burton 
respected  the  great  artist  of  whom  they  had  been  speaking 
quite  as  much  as  he  said.  There  were  other  people  be 
sides  Whicher  on  his  horizon,  however — other  methods, 
other  techniques,  other  gods.  But  this  old  boy  looked 
as  if  he  had  stuck  at  Whicher. 

"I've  never  done  Fontainebleau,"  he  said,  "except  in 
sketch  books.  Better  leave  it  to  the  man  who  does  it 
best.  Here's  some  Brittany  stuff. ...  I  haven't  been  West, 
of  course — mean  to  go  some  time.  Meanwhile  here's  a 
thing  I  did  last  summer,  up  in  the  Catskills.  Shoved 
away  Isaac  and  Rebekah  and  flung  their  tin  cans  over  a 
waterfall.  After  Isaac  and  Rebekah  went  away,  the  cows 
came  back.  But  I  don't  mind  cows."  He  prattled  on 
rather  desperately. 

John  Lawrence  stared  at  the  picture  for  some  time. 
Then  he  drew  a  deep  breath  and  turned  away  from  the 
canvas.  "You  don't  mind  cows?"  he  queried. 

James  Burton  was  very  discouraged.  WTiy  couldn't 
Arthur  be  more  serious?  "Show  him  some  more  of  your 
Brittany  studies,"  he  suggested. 

19 


LOST  VALLEY 

Young  Burton  shook  his  head.  "Anything  you  like, 
father,  but  what  I've  done  lately  is  a  lot  better.  That 
thing" — he  nodded  at  the  canvas  hi  question,  which  he 
had  placed  on  an  easel — "is  better.  No  trick  stuff  in 
it.  I'd  like  to  paint  the  sea  forever — just  because  I  can't. 
Must  be  a  throwback.  I'm  a  country  boy!  It's  like  not 
minding  cows.  You  used  to  milk  'em,  didn't  you?" 

James  Burton  grunted. 

"And  you  say  you've  never  seen  the  place  where  your 
father  and  I  used  to  milk  them?"  Lawrence  queried. 

"Never." 

"Well:  go  up  there  and  look  at  it.  Paint  it.  Do  me 
two  pictures.  One  from  the  top  of  the  pass  in  the  after 
noon — and  one"  (he  frowned  a  little)  "down  by  Lost  Brook 
in  the  morning,  after  the  light  strikes  it.  The  place  they 
call  the  Sheep  wash.  Just  below  the  Breens'  old  cider 
mill.  Andrew  Lockerby  '11  show  it  to  you.  Call  it  a  com 
mission.  If  I  don't  like  them — I'll  send  Whicher  up. 
But  I'll  take  a  chance  on  you  first." 

Lawrence  was  having  hard  work  to  conceal  his  emotion. 
If  the  Catskill  brook  had  not  been  like  Lost  Brook:  if 
Arthur  Burton  had  not  succeeded  in  moving  him  by  this 
landscape  which  was  not  his  landscape,  yet  somehow 
heartbreakingly  like — he  would  probably  have  been 
more  suave.  As  it  was,  he  disagreeably  resembled  the 
citizen  with  a  check  book  and  without  delicacy. 

James  Burton  held  his  breath.  Arthur  was  an  incal 
culable  soul — and  did  not  know  that  Lawrence  was  a  grow 
ing  power  in  the  land. 

The  young  man  threw  back  his  head.  "Humph!"  he 
said.  "I  ought  to  be  very  grateful  to  you  for  giving  me 
the  commission,  no  doubt.  But  I'm  damned  if  I'd  take 
it  if  I  didn't  want  to  see  Lost  Valley.  You'll  have  to 
stake  me  if  I  go,  sir;  and  I  reserve  to  myself  the  right  to 
chuck  everything  if  the  place  doesn't  get  me.  I'll  not 
20 


LOST  VALLEY 

paint — ever — anything  that  doesn't  intrigue  me.  What 
would  be  the  use?  You  see  a  thing,  or  you  don't.  There's 
work  enough,  and  problem  enough,  even  when  you  'see' 
it.  I'll  go — and  glad  of  the  chance.  But  if  I  feel  I  can't 
pull  it  off,  you  go  to  Whicher — and  I  don't  give  back  the 
car  fare! "  His  smile  took  some  of  the  edge  off  his  imperti 
nence;  and  to  take  off  the  rest,  he  added:  "It's  not  like 
painting  a  house,  as  you  know.  And,  frankly,  I  haven't 
got  a  universal  technique." 

"Neither  has  Whicher,  I  infer,"  replied  John  Lawrence 
dryly. 

"Oh,  Whicher!"  The  young  man  flung  out  his  arms. 
"No,  I  don't  think  he  has.  But  he  has  one  absolutely 
flawless  and  unblemished  one.  Whatever  he  does,  it's 
always  a  Whicher,  and  that's  something  to  go  down  on 
your  knees  and  be  grateful  for.  Of  course  you  mustn't 
mind  if  all  the  trees  look  like  birches.  But  then  I  don't 
— when  they're  Whicher  birches." 

"There's  spruce,  and  hemlock,  and  elm,  and  ash,"  said 
Lawrence  gravely.  "There  are  precious  few  birches." 

"Then  I  think  perhaps  I'm  your  man,"  returned  Arthur 
briskly.  "But  I  make  no  promises.  I've  got  to  see  if  I 
feel  it — if  I  see  it  a  certain  way — with  my  composing  inner 
eye.  If  I  don't,  it's  all  up.  But  I  expect  my  ancestors 
will  help.  Say  I  try  it — for  filial  piety." 

"Try  it — for  filial  piety."  John  Lawrence  turned  away 
to  look  for  his  stick.  "I'll  send  you  a  check  to-night." 

"About  the  check—"  Arthur  Burton  knitted  his 
brows.  "You  give  me  an  advance  on  the  price  of  the 
pictures,  to  cover  expenses.  Then,  if  I  pull  it  off,  we 
deduct  that  advance  from  the  final  price.  If  I  don't 
pull  it  off — you'll  have  paid  for  my  time  and  materials. 
It's  all  rather  informal,  isn't  it?  But  I've  never  taken  a 
landscape  commission  before.  I  don't  quite  know  what 
to  say.  As  for  the  final  price — I  won't  set  it.  You  go  to 


LOST  VALLEY 

Ladd  and  ask  him  what  the  pictures  are  worth  in  the 
market.  He  may  sting  me  on  it,  but  he  won't  sting  you. 
Lots  of  people  take  his  advice  that  way.  Say,  in  case 
you  find  you  really  want  the  pictures,  they'll  be  a  thou 
sand  apiece  if  Ladd  backs  that  up.  Send  me  a  hundred 
and  fifty  to-night,  if  you  like.  Dad  '11  tell  me  how  to  get 
there,  and  what  is  the  best  hotel." 

Lawrence  laughed.  "There  isn't  any  hotel.  You'll 
have  to  stay  in  Siloam,  three  miles  away,  and  be  driven 
over  every  day." 

"Oh,  no,  that  won't  do!"  exclaimed  Arthur.  "You 
may  want  a  morning  sun  effect,  and  an  afternoon  sun 
effect — that's  all  very  well.  But — I've  got  to  prowl 
round  that  blessed  valley  at  all  hours — drive  it  home  in 
every  conceivable  aspect,  before  I  begin.  I  can't  just 
get  out  of  a  buggy  and  begin  to  paint." 

James  Burton  was  worried.  He  didn't  like  Arthur's 
tone — didn't  like  his  making  difficulties.  "There's  no 
place  nearer  than  Siloam,"  he  began.  "I'll  back  John 
up  on  that." 

"Hang  Siloam!"  Arthur  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 
He  had  a  dinner  engagement,  and  longed  for  them  to  go. 
"It's  all  off  if  I  can't  be  on  the  spot." 

"I  think,"  said  John  Lawrence  firmly,  "that  the  people 
named  Lockerby  might  take  you  in.  It's  not  cheerful — 
there's  a  crazy  grandmother,  and  a  half-wit  girl.  But 
they  won't  bother  you.  I  think  the  Lockerby s  would  be 
glad  of  the  money.  You  ask  Andrew  Lockerby.  Tell 
him  all  about  it.  Silas  Mann  will  take  you  over  from 
Siloam."  He  brooded  a  moment.  "Your  grandfather  was 
a  good  friend  of  the  Lockerbys,  always.  I  think  they'll 
take  you  in.  And  the  money  you  give  them  will  pay  for 
something  besides  salt  pork  and  greens  to  eat." 

Lawrence  had  by  this  time  prepared  for  departure. 
But  at  the  door  of  the  studio  he  turned.  "The  place  has 


LOST  VALLEY 

gone  to  seed,"  lie  said  very  gravely.  "There's  nothing 
left  of  the  Valley  where  your  father  and  I  grew  up  except 
— beauty.  The  houses  are  falling  to  pieces,  the  people 
are  mostly  fit  only  for  the  grave  and  the  asylum,  the 
cattle  are  lean,  the  crops  are  poor.  Man  hasn't  done  very 
well  by  the  Valley.  But  God  hasn't  forsaken  it  yet. 
You  say  you'll  paint  my  pictures  if  it  *  gets'  you.  Young 
man,  if  it  doesn't  'get'  you,  I  don't  want  your  pictures! 
I  think  we  are  agreed." 

Then  he  held  out  his  hand.  "Good-by.  I'll  write  you 
to-night,  and  I  hope  you'll  start  soon.  Come  along,  Jim 
— that  is,  if  you're  going  part  way  with  me."  The  two 
older  men  left. 

Arthur  Burton  looked  at  his  watch.  They  had  not 
given  him  much  time  to  get  ready  for  his  dinner.  Funny 
old  boys,  both  of  them!  Well:  he'd  see  what  he  could  do. 
He  had  kept  his  hands  untied,  and  the  whole  thing  might 
be  rather  a  lark.  He  would  start  on  Thursday  .  .  .  which 
would  give  him  an  excuse  for  breaking  a  rather  pressing 
engagement  with  Juanita.  At  least,  she  had  made  it 
sound  pressing — she  had  summoned  him  to  meet  her  train 
on  Thursday  and  take  her  straight  from  the  station  to 
dinner.  He  would  write  Juanita  a  lovely  note  that  would 
intrigue  her  to  the  marrow — keep  her  on  the  grid  if  she 
really  did  care  a  hang  for  him.  Arthur  Burton  was  not 
an  unkind  person,  but  in  these  matters  he  claimed  a  cer 
tain  latitude  of  movement.  No  use  in  going  too  far  with 
Juanita.  Even  now,  at  the  height  of  their  flirtation,  he 
was  anxious  not  to  involve  himself.  Juanita  rang  truer 
than  some  of  the  crowd,  but  even  Juanita  ...  he  was 
morally  sure  she  had  been  baptized  Joanna.  Somehow, 
that  seemed  significant.  It  was  an  index  of  the  whole 
meretriciousness  of  her  get-up.  He  was  tired  of  vamps 
from  Iowa,  Juanita- Joannas,  the  whole  darned  thing.  . . . 

Arthur  Burton  walked  back  to  the  canvas  on  the  easel. 
3  23 


LOST  VALLEY 

His  eyes  widened,  then  narrowed  professionally,  as  he 
stared  at  it.  Some  suggested  breath  of  mountain  air 
touched  his  hot  face.  "I  will  arise  an'  get  'ence,"  he  quoted 
to  himself  softly.  "The  old  boy  is  daffy,  but  he  gives  me 
— by  my  immortal  soul — he  gives  me  a  vacation!  The 
push  can  go  hang  to-night.  ...  I  just  won't  turn  up.  .  .  . 
I  have  a  rendezvous  with  hicks,  at  some  abandoned  cider 
mill.  .  .  .  Thank  God,  I've  no  telephone,  and  the  door 
locks." 

He  flung  himself  down  on  the  big  battered  divan  and 
proceeded  with  the  fortunate  inconsequence  of  youth,  to 
fall  asleep. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

MADGE  LOCKERBY  stood  looking  across  the  val 
ley  at  its  narrowest  point.  She  had  climbed  up 
through  then*  pastures,  full  of  rocks  and  thorn  bushes, 
the  latter  nibbled  by  the  cows  up  to  the  limit  of  head 
reach,  until  they  looked  like  grotesque  New  England 
imitations  of  Jacobean  yews,  clipped  by  generations  of 
gardeners.  The  unconscious  greedy  cattle  had  left  here 
a  battered  helmet,  there  a  fantastic  bird  shape,  or  a  lop 
sided  galleon.  The  thorn  trees  were  a  wry  and  wind-blown 
travesty  on  the  ornament  of  many  a  secular  English  gar 
den.  Madge  Lockerby,  who  had  never  seen  or  heard  of 
those  quaint  old  plaisances,  had  yet  noted  the  clumsy 
artistry  of  the  cows.  Sometimes,  narrowing  her  eyes, 
she  made  out  the  shapes,  finding  for  them  homelier  similes 
than  those  I  have  noted.  But  to-day  she  had  climbed  past 
them  to  the  very  top  of  Barker's  Hill,  feeling  within  her 
the  impulse  to  put  as  far  below  her  as  possible  the  intimate 
sordidness  of  her  life.  Looking  down  from  her  nest  under 
a  clump  of  hemlocks,  she  saw  the  Lockerby  farm  very 
small — too  small  to  hurt  her  or  endanger.  At  this  dis 
tance  from  those  pigmy  buildings,  she  felt  herself  life- 
size,  uncramped,  free.  If  nothing  happened  in  another 
dozen  years,  such  a  view  would  only  point  the  irony  of 
fate;  she  would  feel,  even  on  her  hilltop,  manacled,  and 
shrunk  to  the  very  compass  of  those  tiny  walls  beneath 
her.  But  now,  at  nineteen,  she  was  youth,  high-breasted 
to  meet  a  miracle. 

The  season  had  slipped,  beyond  summer,  into  the  beauty 

25 


LOST  VALLEY 

that  September  brings  to  the  northern  region.  Spring 
the  traditional,  the  darling  of  romance,  is  ousted  in  that 
clime  by  autumn.  It  is  autumn  that  stirs  the  blood,  that 
lifts  the  horizon,  that  points  the  outward  road;  autumn 
that  delays  and  woos  and  hints;  that  says,  "Even  this  I 
can  glorify  .  .  .  and,  beyond — there  are  no  words  to  tell." 
The  dread  of  winter  gives  the  authentic  tragic  pang, 
humanizing  emotion  beyond  the  mere  Panic  joy  of  spring. 
The  children  of  New  England  get  their  pantheistic  reve 
lations  less  from  the  soft  fruit  blooms  of  May  than  from 
the  gold  and  carmine  of  the  maples'  passionate  death. 
There  is  the  tang  of  pain  in  their  most  exhilarating  air. 

All  this,  Madge  Lockerby,  a  child  of  the  hills  even  to 
the  fifth  and  sixth  generation  of  ancestors,  felt  as  only  the 
native-born  can  feel.  Autumn  brought  her,  not  hope, 
but  the  sense  of  what  hope  might  mean  to  the  more  for 
tunate.  Her  youth,  in  the  wine-like  air,  leaped  within  her. 
She  was  pathetically  ready.  The  wind,  on  her  eminence, 
whipped  the  blood  into  her  cheeks.  But  she  stood  alone: 
there  was  no  one  to  be  stirred  by  her  dark  beauty. 

Far  down  below  her  she  could  see  Lost  Brook,  where 
it  emerged  from  the  thicket  and  flowed  for  a  little  through 
the  open.  Across  from  her  was  Roundtop,  and  the  road 
that  snaked  down  its  side  from  the  top  of  the  pass.  A 
little  cloud  of  dust  had  settled  over  the  road  where  it 
met  the  bridge  below  the  Breen  farm.  On  that  she  fixed 
her  eyes.  The  dust  cloud  was  broken  by  the  dense  green 
trees  in  front  of  the  Breen  place.  But  she  waited.  Pres 
ently  she  saw  what  she  had  half  unconsciously  watched 
for:  the  R.  F.  D.  man,  emerging  from  the  trees  and  mov 
ing  again,  along  the  clear  road,  in  a  little  sun-shot  shimmer 
of  dust.  His  equipage  looked,  all  across  the  valley,  like 
a  fly  moving  among  golden  notes.  She  could  not  see  the 
detail  she  knew  so  well :  the  rusty,  creaky,  mud-spattered- 
and-never-cleaned  buggy,  the  mended  harness,  and  the 
26 


LOST  VALLEY 

aged  sorrel  horse.    He  looked  only  like  a  fly,  far  below  and 
across;  a  mean  fly  at  the  heart  of  a  golden  haze. 

The  postman  crawled  on,  a  sordid  speck,  along  the 
Valley  road.  Next  the  Breens',  the  Mellen  place;  then  a 
long  eclipse  behind  the  trees  as  he  rounded  the  head  of 
the  valley  to  emerge  on  the  other  side  of  the  brook. 
Madge  sighed.  She  must  get  home.  Granny  had  been 
ominously  quiet  all  the  morning.  She  might  have  a  bad 
spell.  Uncle  Andrew  would  be  going  for  the  cows  pres 
ently;  she  must  be  there  to  guard  the  homestead.  Lola 
had  a  way  of  slipping  over  to  the  Breens',  if  left  too  long 
unwatched.  Madge  had  never — perhaps  with  an  instinc 
tive  aversion  to  morbidity — thought  out  the  problem  that 
faced  any  healthy  creature  in  that  unhealthy  atmosphere; 
but  without  giving  things  a  name,  she  knew.  Knew  that 
danger  must  ever  wait  upon  Lola's  loveliness,  undefended 
as  it  was  from  within;  knew,  taught  by  dumb  creatures 
and  subnormal  folk,  as  animal  as  they,  some  of  the  ways 
tragedy  could  take,  on  that  low  plane.  Knew,  by  sheer 
instinct,  that  Bert  Breen  was  "bad,"  and  that  Bert 
Breen's  strapping,  half -gypsy  wife — an  outland  woman — 
was  in  her  way  (which  was  cruelty)  as  bad  as  he.  There 
were  other  sources  of  danger  for  poor  innocent  Lola — 
nearly  every  male  in  the  Valley  was  a  potential  menace 
— but  it  was  Bert  Breen  she  feared  most.  Madge  Lock- 
erby,  who  had  dug  one  deep  channel  for  her  affections, 
diverting  them  all  to  her  hapless  half-sister,  knew  little 
peace,  even  on  her  hilltop. 

Madge  came  down  the  hill  almost  at  a  run.  Glowing, 
alert,  vibrant  with  health,  she  entered  the  littered  yard 
through  the  broken  gate  of  the  pasture.  She  saw  Lola's 
blue  sunbonnet  disappear  round  the  corner  of  the  un- 
painted  barn,  and  followed.  Lola  was  alone. 

Madge  spoke,  from  a  little  distance,  not  to  frighten  her, 
then  came  up  and  flung  an  arm  round  the  girl. 

27 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Sister  is  back,"  she  said  soothingly.  "We  will  feed 
the  hens,  won't  we,  Lola?" 

The  child  clapped  her  hands  with  pleasure.  "Can  I 
throw  the  corn?" 

Madge's  arm  tightened  on  the  slender  shoulder.  "A 
handful,  yes — a  whole  big  handful." 

"All,"  the  child  insisted. 

"No,  not  all.    Madge  must  throw  some,  too." 

"Yes,  Madge  can  throw  some,  too." 

They  entered  the  barn,  and  the  older  girl  filled  a  rusty 
pan. 

When  they  reached  the  henhouse,  the  fowls  came  chat 
tering  about  them. 

"Now,"  cried  Lola  in  excitement.  She  grasped  a  brim 
ming  handful  from  the  pan  and  flung  it  as  wildly  as  her 
strength  permitted.  The  scattering  kernels  rained  on 
the  henhouse  roof,  fell  into  the  trough  near  by,  escaped 
into  the  rough  grass  of  the  pasture.  The  defrauded  hens 
kept  up  their  maddening  cackle.  Madge  was  disobeying 
Andrew  Lockerby's  orders  in  letting  Lola  waste  the  feed; 
but  some  temptations  her  affection  could  not  resist. 

"Now  see,  Lola,"  she  said  quietly.  "Like  this."  She 
scattered  the  corn  with  a  practiced  hand,  and  the  hens 
began  to  feed  in  a  dense  group. 

"Like  this."  Lola  repeated  obediently,  and  seized  an 
other  handful,  which  she  dropped  heavily  on  the  fluffy 
heads  of  the  nearest  chickens. 

"My  turn,  now."  Madge  drew  the  pan  under  her  left 
arm,  and  finished  her  task.  Her  letting  Lola  waste  the 
corn  was  part  of  a  settled  plan.  She  hoped  always  against 
hope  that  Lola  could  learn  the  simpler  tasks :  could  acquire 
a  few  deftnesses,  some  weak  routine  that  would  let  in 
light  slowly  on  that  backward  brain.  She  had  trained 
Lola  for  years,  with  infinite  patience,  until  she  could  sew 
patchwork.  For  anything  else  with  a  needle  Lola  was 
28 


'LOST.  VALLEY 

hopelessly  unfit;  but  she  could  match  the  edges  of  the 
squares  and  get  them  together  not  too  bunglingly. 

Andrew  Lockerby  came  in  sight,  ahead  of  the  cows 
that  the  Leffingwell  boy  was  driving  down  the  pasture 
lane.  He  walked,  with  his  hitching  step,  into  the  barn 
where  he  could  do  his  meager  milking.  Lola  loved  to 
watch  the  milk  spurt  into  the  pails.  She  would  be  happy 
for  half  an  hour.  Madge  walked  to  the  house  door, 
picking  her  way  through  the  rusty  litter,  and  listened  for 
a  moment.  Granny  was  snoring  beside  the  cold  hearth. 
She  had  still  a  few  moments  of  grace,  and  she  passed 
down  the  half-obliterated  front  walk  to  the  gate.  She 
could  not  leave  the  place  again  until  to-morrow,  but  she 
could  stand  there  a  few  rods  removed  from  her  burdens, 
and  watch  the  road  that  led — for  her — only  in  one  vicious 
loop  from  broken  farmstead  to  broken  farmstead. 

The  fly  that  was  the  R.  F.  D.  man  in  his  buggy  was 
edging  down  toward  Lockerby's.  Soon  he  came  near 
enough,  jolting  along  to  the  jaded  trot  of  the  horse,  to 
be  seen  fully  for  what  he  was — a  man  with  a  sour  face 
plying  his  monotonous  task.  The  day  was  perfect,  yet 
the  inclemencies  of  all  the  seasons  seemed  to  have  beaten 
the  lines  into  his  face.  He  had  been  rained  upon,  snowed 
upon,  blown  upon,  and  his  visible  expression  was  that  of 
gnarled  resentment  struggling  with  the  habit  of  resigna 
tion.  Not  a  figure  of  romance:  yet  to  Madge  Lockerby 
he  was  a  privileged  person,  since  though  he  came  daily 
to  Lost  Valley  he  could  leave  it  and  climb  the  pass  at 
sundown.  She  liked  to  watch  him  on  his  way;  liked,  when 
she  had  time,  to  see  him  escape  the  Valley,  and  draw  a 
breath  of  vicarious  liberty.  She  waited,  to  see  him  pass. 

But  the  horse  slowed  down  to  a  walk,  as  he  approached, 
and  the  postman  fumbled  in  his  bag.  It  was  not  the 
season  for  seed  catalogues.  Perhaps — her  young  heart 
leaped — it  was  the  catalogue  of  the  mail-order  house  in 

29 


LOST  VALLEY 

Chicago.  On  the  strength  of  a  purchase  she  had  once 
made,  they  sometimes  vouchsafed  one.  There  was  men 
tal  food  for  months:  an  enchanted  world  of  things.  Oh, 
how  she  hoped  that  was  it! 

The  rusty  equipage  did  not  quite  stop.  The  horse  had 
learned  to  slow  down  to  a  snail's  pace  for  a  few  seconds 
while  a  waiting  child  grabbed  at  the  mail.  The  postman 
leaned  out  and  handed  Madge  a  letter,  and  before  she 
knew  what  she  held,  the  buggy  was  tilting  along  at  a  faster 
gait. 

The  address  was  Andrew  Lockerby's,  the  writing  un 
familiar,  delicate  and  small.  Madge  could  not  see  the 
postmark,  but  the  writing,  the  shape  of  the  envelope,  the 
quality  of  the  paper,  showed  her  that  it  was  a  personal 
communication — the  sort  of  letter,  she  felt  dumbly,  that 
some  people  get  every  day.  She  wondered  what  it  was. 
Her  curiosity,  though  intense,  was  not  vulgar.  A  letter 
like  that,  arriving  in  the  Lockerby  household,  aroused 
interest  as  legitimately  as  any  phenomenon  of  Nature — 
an  earthquake  or  a  flood.  It  was  out  of  the  common 
run  of  things;  it  stopped  her  in  her  tracks.  She  stared 
as  she  would  have  stared  at  a  solar  eclipse.  But  she 
did  not  run  with  the  letter  to  Andrew  at  his  task  in  the 
barn.  Excitement,  curiosity  even,  did  not  breed  hope  in 
Madge  Lockerby.  She  had  seen  too  many  signs  fail. 
With  a  sigh,  she  placed  the  intriguing  envelope  on  the  top 
of  the  high  chimneypiece,  beyond  Granny's  reach  or  notice, 
and  went  upstairs  through  her  own  little  room,  to  the 
unfinished  attic.  She  had  nearly  half  an  hour  still,  and 
she  would  finish  a  task  she  had  begun  yesterday.  The 
morning  hours  were  never  free;  and  she  could  not  work 
by  candlelight.  The  one  low  western  window  under  the 
eaves  gave  her  the  last  bright  light  of  day,  flooding  full, 
while  those  that  looked  north  and  east  were  growing  dusky. 

A  little  old  trunk  stood  open,  just  by  the  window;  and 
30 


LOST  VALLEY 

some  objects  were  piled  beside  it.  She  must  get  them  all 
neatly  in  before  dark — and  supper.  Once  in  so  often  Madge 
Lockerby  went  over  her  dead  mother's  few  belongings. 
She  knew  them  all  by  heart,  but  it  was  her  pleasure  to 
fold  and  refold,  pack  and  repack;  to  turn  them  over  in 
her  hands,  while  her  throat  ached  and  choked  with  unshed 
tears  for  the  mother  who,  had  she  lived,  would  somehow 
have  made  life  different. 

Madge  was  too  nai've  to  work  out  the  details  of  what 
that  life  would  have  been.  Had  Mary  Lockerby  lived, 
there  would  not — perhaps — have  been  Lola;  but  Madge, 
in  her  passionate  devotion  to  her  half-sister,  did  not 
think  of  that.  She  never  conceived  of  life  without  Lola; 
and  though  she  knew,  in  all  its  stark  grimness,  the  history 
of  Lola's  birth,  she  yet  said  to  herself  that  her  mother 
would  have  known  how  to  help  Lola  best.  Her  mother 
would  have  been  wiser  than  she;  and  together  they  could 
have  watched  over  Lola  almost  in  happiness.  To  Madge 
Lockerby,  too,  her  mother  stood  to  her  for  all  that  quality 
in  life  which,  without  (strictly  speaking)  ever  having  had 
it,  she  passionately  missed.  Her  mother's  friend,  Miss 
Martin,  had  given  her  glimpses  of  it.  Sarah  Martin  was 
no  "mold  of  form,"  and  had  few  graces;  but  to  her 
dead  friend's  daughter  she  represented  an  unattainable 
world  of  physical  decencies  and  spiritual  richness.  That 
the  decencies  were  prim,  the  spiritual  field  narrow, 
Madge  lacked  experience  to  perceive.  She  did  homage  to 
the  mind  that  could  deal  with  Latin  verbs,  the  heart  that 
had  really  loved  her  mother. 

Most  of  Mary  Lockerby 's  possessions  were  too  precious 
to  be  removed  from  the  old  hair  trunk  that  kept  them 
safe.  Even  the  few  books  that  were  among  them  Madge 
read  only  by  the  light  of  the  attic  window.  She  could 
not  bring  herself  to  make  over  the  dresses  and  wear  them : 
she  felt  unworthy.  Some  innate  sense  of  fitness — some 

31 


LOST  VALLEY 

law  never  formulated — kept  her  from  remodeling  her 
mother's  things  for  her  beloved  Lola.  So  they  lay  un 
touched.  She  wondered  sometimes  why  some  of  these 
soft  fabrics  should  be  unworn  and  whole.  The  family 
poverty  must  be  immemorial,  she  thought.  How  could 
the  driven  wife  of  a  Lost  Valley  farmer  have  left  them  so 
spotless  and  untorn?  The  fact  was  that  Mary  Lockerby 
had  grimly  turned  the  key  on  them  in  her  own  lifetime. 
Even  before  she  died  aforetime,  she  had  shut  away  her 
scanty  treasures — the  lavender  silk,  the  sprigged  muslin, 
the  little  fan,  the  lace  handkerchief  .  .  .  they  did  not  go 
with  her  life.  Mary  Lockerby  had  dedicated  them  to 
her  daughter's  future,  not  daring  to  admit  to  herself  that, 
"without  her,  that  future  would  hardly  fit  them, 

Madge  dried  her  tears.  Her  world  closed  round  her 
with  the  quick  dark  that  followed  the  sunset.  She  hid 
the  trunk  key  in  her  bosom,  and  stepped  lightly — for 
youth,  like  hers,  even  grievous,  walks  with  no  dragging 
feet — down  the  stairs  and  through  the  house  to  set  out 
the  frugal,  unsavory  supper. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

THEY  had  at  last  got  Granny  off  to  bed.  Madge  had 
feared,  from  her  extreme  quietness  in  the  last  days, 
a  troublesome  emergence  from  lethargy,  a  sudden  bout  of 
frenzy;  but  by  coaxing  her,  and  speaking  low,  she  had 
managed  to  draw  the  old  woman  into  her  own  room,  to 
undress  her,  and  induce  her  to  lie  down  between  the 
covers,  all  without  shattering  Granny's  somnolent  ac 
quiescence.  Sometimes  the  bed  looming  in  the  corner 
frightened  Granny:  the  familiar  refuge  of  her  whole  life 
became  to  her  troubled  brain  a  monster,  an  engine  of 
torture,  an  incomprehensible  menace,  and  she  chattered 
wildly  against  it,  or  cried  out  in  rage  and  terror  at  its 
proximity.  She  could  not  tell  them  why  she  loathed  and 
feared  the  shabby  old  four-poster.  She  could  only  cringe 
and  cry,  or  scream  and  wave  her  wild  clawlike  hands, 
and  shake  the  white  mop  of  her  hair.  It  was  impossible 
sometimes  to  soothe  her,  and  that  made  a  long  vigil  for 
Madge  or  Andrew,  since  they  did  not  dare  leave  her  until 
she  had  quieted  down. 

To-night,  however,  she  went  to  rest  like  a  child — a 
fretful,  stupid,  but  helpless  child.  Prostrate,  she  seemed 
at  the  mercy  of  her  physical  old  age.  Her  flickering  mad 
ness  had  no  power  against  the  dead  weight  of  years. 

Andrew  stumped  out  into  the  living  room,  Madge  fol 
lowing.  He  fitted  himself  awkwardly  into  his  rickety 
armchair,  all  knobbed  and  misshapen  under  its  tattered 
cover.  Its  strange  humps  and  hollows  seemed  to  fit  the 
man;  long  usage  had  apparently  molded  it  to  his  own 
idiosyncrasies  of  form.  His  limbs  sagged  into  accustomed 

33 


LOST  VALLEY 

corners.  He  twisted  himself  into  a  sort  of  comfort. 
Madge  sat  on  a  footstool  near  the  brick  oven,  and  wondered 
how  soon  she  could  induce  her  sister  to  go  to  bed.  Her 
uncle  could  not  talk  to  her  in  Lola's  presence;  and  she 
was  very  sure  he  had  something  to  say.  He  had  taken 
the  letter  out  of  his  pocket  ajid  was  fumbling  it  over  and 
over  in  his  rough  hands.  Madge  tried  hard  for  patience. 
Every  nerve  in  her  was  vibrating  to  her  curiosity,  her  im 
patience,  her  desperate  longing  for  something  to  happen. 
It  did  not  once  occur  to  Madge  that  the  letter,  mysterious 
as  it  was,  could  bring  to  her  personally  any  boon.  It 
is  the  measure  of  her  hunger  that  it  should  have  seemed 
to  her  then  that  merely  to  handle  it,  to  read,  to  come  in 
contact  with  any  message,  however  insignificant,  from 
another  world,  would  appease  her,  comfort  her,  at  once 
stimulate  and  soothe. 

She  looked  at  the  wooden  clock  on  the  shelf.  It  lacked 
half  an  hour  of  Lola's  usual  bedtime.  Still  her  uncle  said 
nothing :  only  looked  at  the  oven  door  and  went  on  with 
his  mechanical  fumbling  of  the  envelope.  If  he  had  not 
meant  to  tell  her  about  it,  he  would  not  have  sat  there 
before  her  with  it  in  plain  sight.  Yet  if  he  were  willing 
to  speak  to  her  before  Lola,  he  would  have  spoken  ten 
minutes  since.  The  suspense  grew  intolerable.  She 
turned. 

"Time  for  bed,  Lola!" 

But  Lola,  though  she  could  not  be  trusted  to  "tell 
time,"  knew,  like  a  baby  or  an  animal,  her  own  hours 
and  seasons  for  food,  sleep,  and  the  like.  Some  instinct 
in  her  gave  her  knowledge  of  her  own  routine. 

"'Tain't  time  yet!  I  don't  want  to  go."  She  pouted 
her  lip,  and  began  to  muss  her  patchwork  in  anger. 

"I  say  it  is  time."  Madge  was  firm,  though  tenderness 
was  seldom  far  from  any  speech  of  hers  to  Lola. 

"Tisn't.  It  don't  feel  time.  Lola's  sewing."  The  girl 
34 


LOST  VALLEY 

pushed  her  work  awkwardly  up  to  her  sister's  face,  as 
if  to  placate  and  distract  her. 

Andrew  Lockerby  said  nothing — gazed  at  the  door  in 
the  brick  oven,  and  turned  the  envelope — dirty  and 
crumpled  by  this  time — over  and  over  in  his  hands.  He 
might  have  been  withdrawn  to  another  place,  drawing 
his  breath  in  another  air. 

Madge  rose,  quivering  all  over,  yet  holding  herself 
in  leash. 

"It  is  time.  You  must  come.  If  you  don't  go  to  bed 
nicely  in  your  own  room,  you'll  have  to  sleep  downstairs 
with  Granny." 

Lola  burst  into  terrified  weeping.  She  dropped  her 
patchwork  on  the  floor  and  rushed  to  Madge,  clutching 
her  with  frenzied  little  hands. 

Madge's  heart  was  constricted  within  her.  "No,  no, 
Lola !  Madge  will  go  upstairs  with  you,  and  tuck  you  in. 
See,  we'll  take  the  lamp,  and  it  will  be  all  bright.  Madge 
will  have  the  candle  to-night,  and  Lola  shall  have  the 
lamp  with  the  pictures  on  it." 

They  climbed  the  boxed-in  staircase  to  the  room  off 
Madge's,  where  Lola  slept.  The  lamp  brightened  every 
corner  of  the  mean  little  place.  It  was  hardly  larger 
than  a  closet,  and  the  one  small  peaked  dormer  window 
sufficed,  in  the  daytime,  to  flood  it  with  light.  Queer 
treasures  of  Lola's  stood  on  the  shelves,  and  Alice,  the 
rag  doll,  waited  on  the  pillow  to  be  taken  to  bed. 

Lola  undressed  carefully,  slowly,  forgetting  now  and 
then  what  came  next,  but  doing  her  best  to  be  orderly. 
Madge  exacted  of  her  the  greatest  care.  Lola  was  not 
allowed  to  leave  her  things  in  a  heap  on  the  floor.  She 
puckered  her  face  to  remember  where  the  stockings  went, 
in  which  corner  the  shoes  should  stand.  .  .  .  Madge  stood 
by  like  an  eager  prompter.  It  was  life  and  death  to  her 
that  Lola  should  acquire  the  ritual. 

35 


LOST  VALLEY 

At  last  Lola  was  ready,  and  wrapped  in  a  thin  flannel 
dressing  gown.  Madge  stood  behind  to  brush  out  and 
braid  the  wonderful  hair  that  haloed  the  girl's  face  and 
rippled  in  Pactolus  waves  down  her  slim  shoulders  and 
back.  The  steady  strokes  of  the  brush  soothed  Lola. 
She  crooned  to  herself  in  rhythm  with  the  motions  of 
Madge's  arm.  Madge  brushed  on  and  on  in  conscientious 
desperation.  She  was  sick  at  heart  to  have  threatened 
Lola,  even  though  she  could  never  have  dreamed  of 
carrying  out  her  threat.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could 
stand  there  all  night,  grooming  the  wasted  glory  of 
Lola's  hair,  if  it  would  only  atone.  Yet  her  feet  were 
restless  to  be  gone  to  where  the  letter  waited.  Her 
curiosity  was  still  all  athirsL  She  brushed,  and  brushed, 
torturing  herself  with  her  devoted  delay. 

Finally  Lola  tired.  She  stretched  out  her  arms.  "  Allie's 
sleepy."  For  some  reason  she  never  confessed  to  sleepiness 
herself;  it  was  always  the  doll  who  must  bear  the  drowsy 
imputation. 

So  Lola  stretched  herself  in  the  narrow  cot,  with  Alice 
tucked  under  her  arm.  She  looked  very  lovely  lying 
there,  with  her  golden  braids  virginally  drawn  each  side 
of  the  oval  of  her  face.  Madge  was  taken  out  of  all  self- 
pity  by  the  thought  of  her  sister.  Lola  was  pretty  enough 
for  anything,  she  put  it  crudely  to  herself;  and  all  Lola 
could  hope  for — or,  rather,  all  that  could  be  hoped  for 
her — was  that  she  should  be  saved  from  any  result  her 
prettiness  could  normally  have. 

When  Madge  reached  the  living  room,  she  went  to  a 
wall  closet,  lifted  out  another  lamp  and  lighted  it,  then 
set  it  on  the  table  by  Andrew  Lockerby.  He  had  not 
stirred  from  his  contemplation  and  the  mechanical  finger 
ing  of  the  soiled  envelope. 

Her  uncle  thrust  out  the  letter  awkwardly.  "I  s'pose 
we've  got  to  answer  the  feller,"  he  said;  then  sighed,  as 
36 


LOST  VALLEY 

if  a  burden  had  been  removed.  Madge  knew  that  what 
ever  the  problem  was,  it  was  now  turned  over  to  her — 
not  to  decide,  perhaps,  but  to  deal  with  practically.  If 
some  answer  was  to  be  sent,  it  was  she  who  would  have  to 
compose  and  write  it. 

She  opened  the  letter  with  listless  fingers,  and  shading 
her  burning  eyes  from  the  raw  lamplight,  read.  Once, 
twice,  thrice,  she  read;  then  laid  the  letter  on  the 
table. 

Andrew  Lockerby  had  not  spoken  till  she  laid  the  letter 
down. 

"What  do  you  think,  Madge?" 

"Think?  There's  only  one  thing  to  think,  Uncle 
Andy."  With  a  sudden  dramatic  instinct — quite  foreign 
to  her  usual  ways — she  pointed  first  at  the  door  of  Granny's 
room,  then  at  the  low  ceiling  above  which  Lola  was  sleep 
ing.  His  eyes  followed  her  dully.  His  mind  did  not  react 
quickly  to  the  gesture. 

"If  there's  anybody  in  the  Valley  that  can  take  board 
ers,  it's  not  us,  uncle.  Maybe  Breens  might.  They're 
only  bad — they're  not  crazy." 

She  took  up  the  letter  again.  There  was  a  kind  of 
comfort  in  the  form  the  vain  appeal  had  taken:  the  tex 
ture  of  the  paper,  the  wording  of  the  letter,  the  hand 
writing,  easy  to  read  though  so  little  like  the  Spencerian 
models  that  she  had  been  set  in  school;  the  foreignness 
and  fineness  of  it  all. 

"I'd  hate  to  lay  extry  work  on  you,  Madge,"  her  uncle 
muttered.  "When  mother  gets  her  bad  times,  it's  kind 
o'  hard.  And  Lola,  she's  no  help  to  anybody." 

"She's  no  trouble  to  me,"  Madge  exclaimed.  "It's 
Granny.  I  wish  she'd  die!  She's  no  comfort  to  herself." 

But  the  one  hardship  Andrew  Lockerby  would  never 
complain  of  was  his  mother.  He  was  a  bitter  creature, 
and  though  he  would  never  take  his  brother  Jim's  way, 

37 


LOST  VALLEY 

he  was  slipping  no  less  surely  than  Jim  down  the  smooth 
incline  of  degeneration.  Bitterness,  and  increasing  rough 
ness  of  temper,  rather  than  vicious  indulgence,  was 
Andrew's  way  out.  But  the  one  concession  he  would 
never  make  to  the  demons  was  anger  with  his  mother. 
It  was  not  in  Andrew  Lockerby  to  be  gentle  or  tactful, 
but  he  refused,  with  a  kind  of  pathetic  stubbornness,  to 
see  her  as  she  was.  Lola  irritated  him  as  profoundly  as 
though  she  were  a  responsible  person;  his  hand  could 
fall  roughly  on  the  Leffingwell  lad,  and  his  speech 
be  hard  to  Madge.  But  he  simply  did  not  have  it 
in  him  to  admit  that,  even  for  her  own  sake,  Granny 
would  be  better  dead.  She  was  his  mother;  she  was 
sacred. 

"I  don't  say  Granny's  no  trouble.  She's  childish. 
But  she's  had  a  hard  life.  I  don't  begrudge  anything  to 
her."  His  tone  was  rough  and  truculent. 

"I  don't  say  I  begrudge  it,  either."  Madge's  voice  was 
low  but  hard.  "But  she's  more  trouble  than  poor  Lola 
is.  And  Lola  tries — honest  she  does.  Granny  don't. 
I  suppose  she  can't.  I'm  not  laying  it  up  against  her. 
All  I  say  is  it's  no  place  to  bring  a  gentleman  into.  I 
don't  know  much  about  how  decent  folks  live,  but  I'm 
pretty  sure  they  don't  live  like  us." 

Andrew  Lockerby  shifted  his  weight  in  the  knobby 
chair.  "Lockerbys  was  always  decent  folks.  The  farm's 
run  down.  I'd  like  to  see  a  farm  hereabouts  that  ain't. 
But  until  the  likes  of  Lola  was  brought  into  this  house, 
it  was  decent.  I  don't  know  anything  about  this  young 
sprig  that's  writing  to  me,  but  he's  no  call  to  set  himself 
up  if  he's  Jim  Burton's  son.  Jim  Burton  was  never  any 
better  than  us." 

"It's  not  what  he  is  or  who  he  is.  It's  what  he's  been 
used  to.  Folks  in  Siloam  don't  live  the  way  we  do  here 
in  the  Valley.  I  wouldn't  wonder  but  his  father  has  a 
38 


LOST  VALLEY 

nice  house  with  modern  improvements.  He'd  be  miser 
able  here,  and  he'd  look  down  on  us.  I've  got  too  much 
self-respect  to  want  to  be  looked  down  on." 

"I  ain't  hankering  for  it,  myself,"  rejoined  Andrew 
grimly.  "But  Lawrence  will  have  told  him  all  about  us, 
and  he  asks  to  come.  'Twould  be  no  pleasure  to  me, 
havin'  an  airy  young  feller  round  the  place,  thinkin' 
great  shakes  of  himself  and  us  like  dirt  under  his  feet, 
but — he  don't  write  that  way."  Andrew  reached  for  the 
letter,  but  Madge  snatched  it. 

"Of  course  he  don't.  He's  a  gentleman  probably! 
What  passes  me  is  what  you  want  him  for.  'Tisn't  as 
if  you  ever  wanted  to  see  anybody  or  anything.  It's 
as  much  as  I  can  do,  ever,  to  get  you  to  hitch  up  and  take 
me  over  to  Siloam." 

Andrew  Lockerby  rose.  "What  do  I  want  him  for? 
If  you  weren't  a  blamed  fool  woman,  Madge,  you'd  see 
I  wanted  him  for  the  money.  He'd  pay  us  well  for  board 
and  lodging,  and  it  might  help  to  buy  a  new  mowin' 
machine.  If  I  have  to  use  the  old  one  another  season, 
I'll  do  as  Jim  did." 

A  shudder  of  revulsion  went  over  Madge  Lockerby. 
"But  my  father  was — drunk." 

"I  guess  Bert  Breen  would  give  me  a  skinful  if  I  told 
him  what  I  wanted  it  for."  The  morbid  irony  of  the 
retort  sent  Madge  back  to  the  problem  itself. 

"What  Mr.  Burton  would  pay  for  board  wouldn't 
get  you  a  mowing  machine,"  she  argued. 

"  It  would  help  mighty  much.  If  you've  got  some  cash, 
you  can  get  credit." 

His  truculence  dropped  suddenly.  He  grew  more 
peaceable. 

"I  can't  put  it  on  you,  girl,  if  you  won't  do  it.    But  I 
admit  it's  an  awful  temptation  to  a  man  as  desperate  as 
me — the  money,  I  mean." 
4  39 


LOST  VALLEY 

"We'd  have  to  spend  most  of  the  money  on  buying 
him  different  things  to  eat,"  she  parried. 

"That  wouldn't  hurt  us  either."  Andrew  Lockerby, 
his  heart  set  on  the  miracle  of  a  new  mowing  machine, 
was  ready  to  be  almost  excessively  reasonable. 

Madge  took  up  the  letter  and  read  it  again,  very  slowly. 
Her  eyes  dazzled  with  tears,  and  she  bent  her  head  closer 
to  see  the  swimming  words. 

DEAR  MR.  LOCKERBY, — An  old  friend  of  my  father's  and  yours, 
John  Lawrence  of  Chicago,  has  commissioned  me  to  paint  two 
pictures  of  Lost  Valley  for  him.  Realizing  that  in  order  to  do 
this  I  must  find  accommodation  in  the  Valley,  he  has  suggested 
to  me  that  your  household  might  possibly  take  me  in  for  a  few 
weeks.  Except  that  Mr.  Lawrence  himself  bade  me  write  and 
ask  you  for  this  favor  in  his  name,  I  should  not  of  course  pre 
sume  to  make  the  request.  It  does  not  seem  feasible  to  take 
up  the  work  if  I  have  to  stay  as  far  away  from  the  scene  as 
Siloam.  Therefore  my  acceptance  of  the  commission  depends 
on  your  finding  it  possible  to  take  me  in  for  a  time. 

I  need  not  say,  I  hope,  that  in  case  you  found  it  possible  to 
receive  me,  I  should  do  my  best  to  be  very  little  trouble.  My 
work  would  keep  me  out  of  doors  during  most  of  the  daylight 
hours,  and  if  you  do  not  object  to  a  guest  who  sits  up  late 
reading  in  his  own  room,  I  think  perhaps  I  should  not  annoy 
you  greatly.  I  should  have  to  be  fed,  I  confess,  and  sheltered; 
and  I  should  leave  it  to  you  to  name 'the  remuneration  that 
would  seem  to  you  adequate. 

I  learn  from  my  father  and  Mr.  Lawrence  that  your  niece 
is  your  housekeeper.  She  wili  probably  have  the  ultimate 
decision  of  the  question.  Won't  you  please  tell  Miss  Lockerby 
from  me  that  I  have  lived  in  Europe  too  long,  and  am  too  used 
to  doing  for  myself  in  my  own  studio,  to  care  for  the  kind  of 
thing  that  I  find  people  demand  in  New  York,  or  to  be  in  any 
way  a  difficult  person?  I  am  very  much  hoping,  you  see,  that 
you  will  consent  to  give  me  the  hospitality  of  the  Valley  for  the 
next  month  or  so.  If  you  look  upon  me  as  too  great  an  incon 
venience,  however,  I  shall  have  to  tell  Mr.  Lawrence  that  I 
cannot  paint  his  pictures  for  him.  Frankly,  he  did  not  hold  out 
inducement  to  try  for  admission  to  any  household  in  Lost 
Valley  save  yours.  Sincerely  yours,  ARTHUR  BURTON. 
40 


LOST  VALLEY 

Her  first  impulse  had  been  one  of  mere  revolt  against 
the  idea  of  admitting  to  their  sordid  existence  an 
observer  from  the  outer  world.  In  that  revolt  pride 
was  mingled  with  the  instinct  of  self-defense.  She  was 
afraid  of  the  young  man  who  wrote  the  letter — afraid  of 
what  intimate  contact  with  civilization  might  do  to  her 
grim  resolve.  But  she  was  lured.  "Please  tell  Miss 
Lockerby  from  me."  The  simple  words,  to  her  starved 
young  imagination,  almost  created  a  bond.  He  had  sent 
her  a  message:  it  was  almost  as  if  she  knew  him.  To 
refuse  would  be  something  like  refusing  a  friend.  This 
it  was,  if  truth  be  told,  rather  than  sympathy  with  her 
uncle's  aspiration  for  a  mowing  machine,  that  came 
insidiously  to  break  down  her  first  impulse  of  rejection. 
Some  one  from  the  outer  world  had  asked  a  favor  of  her, 
Madge  Lockerby.  .  .  .  Pride  melted  into  a  new  shape: 
it  suddenly  seemed  a  prouder  thing  to  acquiesce  than  to 
deny.  Youth  fought  hard  in  Madge  Lockerby's  heart. 

"I'd  have  to  have  some  of  the  money  for  myself,"  she 
said  at  last.  Instinct  prompted  her  to  be  silent  as  to 
Lola's  needs. 

"That  would  be  fair  enough.  I'd  give  you  ten  dollars, 
and  put  the  rest  toward  the  mowing  machine." 

"Ten  dollars  wouldn't  be  enough."  She  felt  as  though 
she  were  dealing  in  millions.  "I  must  have  twenty-five, 
all  for  myself." 

"But  the  machine  '11  cost—" 

Madge  Lockerby  turned  on  her  uncle  with  cold  fury. 
"I  cook,  I  clean,  I  wash,  I  sew,  I  tend  the  pigs  and  poul 
try,  I  wait  on  Granny  hand  and  foot"  (still  she  did  not 
mention  Lola) — "don't  I?  Who's  to  redd  up  his  room? 
Who's  to  cook  for  him?  Who's  to  fill  his  lamp  and  wait 
on  him  and  make  him  comfortable,  and  keep  Granny 
from  tearing  up  his  clothes?  Is  it  you,  Uncle  Andrew? 
You  think  I'll  do  all  that  for  a  mowing  machine?  It  '11 

41 


LOST  VALLEY 

keep  me  going  from  sunup  'most  to  midnight,  to  do 
for  a  stranger.  Lola  needs  clothes  against  the  winter. 
How  'm  I  going  to  have  any  time  to  make  'em,  with  a 
boarder?" 

"Seems  to  me  Lola's  always  got  clothes,"  murmured 
Andrew  Lockerby 

Madge  flung  out  her  arms  wide  in  a  gesture  of  despair. 
"It's  nothing  but  Lola  keeps  me  here,  Uncle  Andrew. 
If  it  wasn't  for  Lola,  I'd  be  gone  somewhere  else.  I  don't 
mean  you  haven't  been  good  to  me,  as  far  as  you  knew  how. 
You've  never  lifted  your  hand  against  me,  and  you've 
kept  a  roof  over  my  head.  But  if  I  couldn't  teach,  I'd 
be  working  in  Bartlett's  Mills — I'd  be  doing  something 
that  gave  me  a  chance  for  my  old  age.  'Tisn't  money  I 
want — it's  a  chance.  And  I'll  never  have  it.  But  if  it 
wasn't  for  Lola,  I'd  have  it  fast  enough.  I'm  good  to 
Granny — you  know  I  am.  But  it  isn't  Granny  would 
hold  me  here.  And  if  you  begin  to  grudge  the  little  I 
do  for  Lola,  I'll  go  and  take  Lola  with  me ! " 

Even  as  she  made  the  threat,  intolerably  stung,  she 
knew  it  was  worthless.  Lost  Valley  was  the  only  place 
where  she  could  be  sure  of  keeping  Lola  safe.  But  it  did 
her  good  to  utter  it. 

"It  beats  all  how  crazy  you  are  about  that  kid — 
especially  considering  whence  she  came,"  grunted  Andrew. 

"That  isn't  Lola's  fault.  I  don't  know  as  I  would  love 
her  so  if  she  wasn't  so  helpless.  But  she  hasn't  got  any 
body  but  me  to  love  her."  Then  her  voice  changed. 
"If  I  can  have  twenty-five  dollars,  I'll  tell  him  he  can 
come,"  she  said.  "There'll  be  a  good  deal  over  to  start 
you  on  your  mowing  machine." 

"Like  enough  he  won't  pay  more  than  that,  all  told." 

"You'll  charge  him  ten  dollars  a  week.  Maybe  he'll 
be  here  six  weeks." 

"Ten  dollars  a  week!" 
42 


LOST  VALLEY 

"I  won't  let  him  come  for  a  penny  less.  Now  you 
can  decide." 

"He'll  maybe  laugh  at  us." 

"Let  him  laugh.  Then  I  sha'n't  have  to  go  crazy 
thinking  what  to  cook  for  him." 

"You  do  beat  all,  Madge.  All  right,  you  write  the 
letter.  I'm  going  to  bed." 

Andrew  Locker  by  stretched  out  his  hand  for  Burton's 
pages,  but  Madge  Lockerby  snatched  them  away.  Un 
consciously,  she  pressed  them  to  her  bosom — not  for  love 
of  them,  only  to  guard  them  better.  But  Andrew  Lockerby 
looked  at  her  quizzically. 

"Don't  know  as  it's  the  best  thing  to  bring  a  young 
city  feller  up  here,  Madge.  You  might  be  struck  with 
him." 

It  was  clumsy  humor,  and  meant  only  that  Andrew 
was  relieved  at  the  turn  things  had  taken.  But  Madge 
turned  crimson.  She  crumpled  the  pages  in  her  hand 
and  flung  them  on  the  floor. 

"If  you're  going  to  pass  remarks  of  that  kind,  Uncle 
Andrew,  he  sha'n't  come  at  all." 

Andrew  Lockerby  bent  heavily  to  retrieve  the  sheets 
of  paper. 

"Sho!  I  ain't  goin'  to  say  anything.  Can't  you  take 
a  joke?  Here,  you  better  keep  this,  and  write  him  to 
morrow."  He  handed  over  the  letter. 

Madge  laid  it  hastily  on  the  table  as  if  the  paper 
burned  her  fingers.  A  lantern  hung  on  a  nail  by  the 
brick  oven.  This  she  took  down  and  lighted,  then  handed 
it  to  her  uncle.  Then  she  lighted  a  candle,  and  blew  out 
the  lamp. 

"Good  night.    I'm  going  up." 

Andrew  took  the  lantern  to  light  him  to  his  few  chores. 
Madge  started  to  the  door  of  the  boxed-in  stairs.  With 
her  foot  on  the  lowest  of  the  steep  steps,  she  stopped. 

43 


LOST  VALLEY 

Andrew  had  reached  the  door  that  led  to  the  chain  of 
rooms — summer  kitchen,  woodshed,  harness  room,  tool 
shop,  and  so  on — that  meandered  on  to  the  barns. 
Madge  recalled  him.    "Listen!" 
He  came  back  tiptoe,  swinging  his  lantern. 
She  pointed  to  Granny's  room.    "She's  getting  up." 
They  strained  their  ears.    Yes,  the  old  four-poster  was 
creaking.     The  two  held  their  breaths  in  the  desperate 
hope  that  Granny  was  only  turning  over  in  her  sleep. 
But  they  heard  hitching  footfalls,  and  presently  the  door 
creaked  open  slowly.    The  big  room  was  dim,  for  Andrew 
held  the  lantern  behind  him,   and  candle  and  lantern 
together  did  hardly  more  than  mitigate  obscurity.  Granny 
stood  on  the  threshold  of  her  own  room,  peering  out: 
a  skinny  figure  in  her  flannel  nightgown,  her  short  white 
hair  rumpled  from  the  pillow   and  flying   grotesquely. 
Her  feet  were  bare.     Her  clawlike  hands  waved  slowly 
as  if  she  were  weaving  a  spell.    Her  son  and  granddaughter 
stood  mute  in  their  corner  by  the  staircase. 

The  old  woman  stepped  out  into  the  room.  She  blinked 
at  the  light,  but  did  not  look  for  the  source  of  it.  Still 
waving  her  hands  in  that  fluttering  rhythm,  she  sidled 
over  to  the  chimneypiece,  and  lifted  her  chin  to  peer  up 
on  the  shelf. 

Andrew  tapped  his  side  lightly.  Madge,  hardly  breath 
ing,  sensed  the  gesture  and  its  meaning.  He  had  the 
matches  in  his  pocket.  Disappointed,  the  crone  shook 
her  head  wildly,  and  her  silver  hair  tossed  like  a  beast's 
mane.  Granny  was  not  sleepwalking;  she  was  half 
awake  at  least.  She  searched  the  length  of  the  shelf 
— one  claw,  in  palsied  fashion,  swept  it.  But  her  feeble 
brain  realized  the  shelf  was  empty  of  what  she  sought. 
Murmuring  inarticulately,  like  a  weak  animal,  she  started 
back  toward  her  own  door. 

A  glimmer  of  white  on  the  table — Arthur  Burton's 
44 


LOST  VALLEY 

letter — caught  her  glance  as  she  passed.     She  took  it 
up,  making  chirruping  little  noises  in  her  throat. 

Madge  Lockerby,  still  holding  her  candle,  started 
slightly  as  Granny  took  the  letter.  But  Andrew's  arm 
shot  across  her  chest  like  a  bar  of  iron.  Her  bosom 
heaved  against  the  muscles  below  his  elbow.  "The  ad 
dress/'  she  murmured,  her  lips  close  to  his  ear.  He  nodded, 
but  held  his  arm  firm  across  her,  barring  her  impulse. 

Granny  looked  at  the  letter,  twisted  her  wild  head  this 
way  and  that,  squinting  and  crooning  in  the  half  darkness. 
She  was  still  unaware  of  the  other  two.  Madge  breathed 
hard  against  her  barrier,  and  sweat  stood  out  on  Andrew's 
forehead.  His  strained  position  and  suppressed  breath 
were  beginning  to  tell  on  him.  His  leg  ached.  But 
Granny  dropped  the  letter  and  sighed  heavily.  Drowsi 
ness  was  beginning  to  return  upon  her.  She  walked 
back  to  her  own  room,  keeping  the  straight  line  she  had 
taken  from  door  to  fireplace.  It  was  as  if  some  mystery 
of  scent  had  kept  her  to  a  trail.  She  entered  the  dark 
little  lair  that  was  her  own.  Her  feeble  inspiration  had 
stopped  at  the  idea  of  matches:  she  did  not  seek  out  the 
source  of  light. 

Andrew  withdrew  his  arm  and  nodded  at  his  niece. 
He  jerked  his  head  upward  to  show  her  she  could  go  to 
bed.  "I'll  lock  the  door."  His  lips  shaped  the  words 
elaborately,  without  sound.  She  nodded  back.  They 
heard  the  creaking  of  the  four-poster  as  Granny,  baffled 
and  sleepy,  climbed  in. 

Madge  mounted  the  stairs,  but  did  not  go  to  her  room. 
She  sat  on  the  top  step,  waiting.  Andrew  Lockerby 
did  his  chores,  came  back  with  his  lantern,  shuffled  over 
and  bolted  the  door  of  his  mother's  room.  Then  he 
moved  wearily  across  to  his  own  chamber  on  the  other 
side.  Fifteen  minutes  later,  the  sound  of  his  snores  came 
through  the  open  door  of  his  bedroom. 

45 


LOST  VALLEY 

Madge  Lockerby,  still  dressed,  crept  down  into  the  dark 
living  room.  Her  candle,  set  on  the  landing  at  the  stair 
top,  gave  her  hardly  any  light,  but  she  felt  her  way. 
Stealthily,  in  her  stocking  feet,  she  moved  across  the 
room,  listening  between  her  cautious  steps.  All  was 
quiet  except  for  her  uncle's  snores.  With  her  eyes  on  his 
open  doorway,  she  felt  blindly  for  Arthur  Burton's  letter, 
and  after  a  moment's  groping  her  fingers  closed  on  it. 
She  thrust  it  into  her  bosom,  then  stood  upright  and 
walked  swiftly  back  to  the  staircase.  The  door  shut 
silently  behind  her,  and  night  in  the  Lockerby  household 
was  complete. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

IT  was  decided  that  Andrew  Lockerby  should  move 
upstairs  and  give  his  room  to  young  Burton.  Madge 
balanced  the  undesirable  alternatives  and  thought  it 
was  better  to  have  the  guest  below,  in  spite  of  Granny, 
than  to  have  him  in  the  bare  east  chamber  and  face  their 
all  meeting  continually  in  the  narrow  hall.  She  meant 
to  keep  Lola  away  from  him  as  much  as  possible.  Lola 
wouldn't  know  enough,  perhaps,  not  to  run  in  and  out. . . . 
Whereas  the  child  would  never  go  near  Uncle  Andrew's 
room. 

Madge  never  owned  to  herself  how  much  the  simple 
"Please  tell  Miss  Lockerby  from  me"  had  wrought  on 
her  imagination.  Even  as  she  bristled  with  shame  at 
the  thought  of  admitting  a  stranger  to  their  degenerate 
home,  and  tried  to  think  brutally  of  what  they  could 
make  out  of  him — telling  herself  that  it  was  he  who  was 
serving  their  turn,  not  they  who  were  conveniencing  him 
— some  undefended  spot  in  her  melted  to  remembered 
courtesy.  First  of  all,  to  John  Lawrence's;  and,  more 
secretly  and  unconsciously  still,  to  "Please  tell  Miss 
Lockerby  from  me." 

Pride  and  humility  guided  her  alternately  in  preparing 
Andrew  Lockerby's  room  for  the  stranger.  Which  was 
it  that  made  her  face  her  uncle  one  noon  and  curtly  de 
mand  both  transportation  to  Siloam  and  money  to  buy 
dotted  muslin  at  Benner's  for  window  curtains?  Was  it 
pride  lest  an  alien  should  shrug  his  shoulders  at  uncur 
tained  window  panes,  or  was  it  that  feminine  humility, 

47 


LOST  VALLEY 

resident  in  every  woman,  which  leads  her  to  appease  the 
male  by  subtle  service?  It  would  be  hard  to  say. 

The  money  was  not  easily  wrung  from  Andrew  Locker- 
by.  There  was  a  tussle  between  the  two  proud  spirits. 
But  Madge  delivered  her  ultimatum.  "  It's  either  that  or 
sending  word  to  Mr.  Burton  to  say  he  can't  come."  And 
the  monster  of  Andrew's  dreams — the  mowing  machine, 
shiny  and  perfect  in  all  its  parts,  a  potential  champion 
of  Andrew  Lockerby  to  all  his  Valley  critics  and  scorners, 
an  almost  living  comrade  to  ease  his  heavy  toil — grew 
ever  more  vivid  against  the  secret  horizons  of  his  mind. 
Oh,  Lockerby  pride  died  hard!  It  clutched,  still,  at  any 
means  of  regeneration.  Muslin  curtains  like  Miss  Mar 
tin's,  for  the  woman;  a  new  mowing  machine  to  glitter 
across  the  worn  fields,  for  the  man.  Andrew  capitulated. 

"You  git  me  a  loan  of  Sage's  new  catalogue  from  Tom 
Benner,"  he  bade  her,  "and  a  bottle  of  Kendall's  spavin 
cure." 

She  nodded. 

Madge  hitched  the  horse  to  the  splashed  and  rickety 
buckboard,  and  set  forth  alone.  She  would  not  take 
Lola,  fearing  the  constant  struggle  with  her  sister,  who 
would  inevitably  tear  her  heart  by  begging  for  treasures 
Madge  could  not  buy.  And  sometimes  Lola's  irresponsible 
little  hands  would  sweep  candy  off  the  counter,  or  finger 
the  hats  trimmed  by  Mrs.  Benner  for  Siloam  Sunday 
wear. 

Madge  entered  Benner's  humbly,  knowing  herself  to 
be  an  infrequent  and  parsimonious  customer.  She  held 
the  greasy  bill  given  her  by  Andrew  in  her  ungloved 
hand,  as  if  she  had  forgotten  to  put  it  in  her  pocket,  but 
in  reality  that  it  might  be  seen  at  once  by  any  Benner 
who  came  forward. 

Benner's  was  a  typical  country  store  which  had  grown 
in  the  last  decade  into  an  emporium.  Tom  Benner  still 
48 


LOST  VALLEY 

sold  feed  and  farming  tools,  overalls  and  corduroy  trousers, 
heterogeneous  hardware  and  mixed  groceries.  His  wife, 
however,  had  persuaded  him  to  build  out  a  new  wing; 
and,  at  right  angles  from  the  low,  warehouse-like  general 
store,  stretched  a  skylighted  dry-goods  department 
which  the  women  of  Siloam  might  consider  their  own 
domain.  Somewhat  illogically,  the  crockery  and  glass 
were  established  in  Mrs.  Benner's  department,  while  the 
pots  and  pans  were  still  in  the  dark,  low-roofed  main 
store  under  Tom's  sway. 

Madge  bought  her  muslin,  paid  for  it,  and  counted 
her  change.  Andrew  had  told  her  to  buy  the  spavin 
cure  with  the  difference.  She  had  every  intention  of 
obeying  him. 

"That's  pretty  m'terial  you  got  there,  Miss  Lockerby. 
The  minister's  wife  bought  some  yest'day  for  her  south 
chamber.  Said  she  couldn't  'a*  done  better  down  at 
Bartlett's  Mills.  Folks  are  tradin'  right  here  to  home 
now.  They  see  we  don't  cheat  'em.  And — p'r'aps  you 
didn't  know — but  I  go  down  to  Boston  now,  spring  and 
fall,  to  see  the  new  styles  an*  get  my  patterns.  Like  to 
see  some  winter  hats?  Mabel  'n'  I  just  finished  trimmin' 
last  night  for  the  openin'.  'Tisn't  till  to-morrow,  but  you 
don't  get  over  often,  an'  I'd  be  pleased  to  show  you." 

"No,  thank  you.  I'd  love  to  see  them,  but  I'd  better 
wait  till  I  come  in  next  week." 

Madge  Lockerby  could  not  have  told  you  why  she 
spoke  thus  easily  of  visiting  Siloam  so  soon  again.  Some 
how  the  words  came,  and  as  they  came,  brought  con 
viction  to  herself.  It  could  be  done,  and  if  she  chose,  it 
should  be.  She  turned  to  the  china  counter. 

"That's  a  pretty  vase,  Mrs.  Benner.    How  much  is  it?" 

Mrs.  Benner's  small  eyes  blinked  back  their  surprise. 
"That?  That's  hand-painted  by  Miss  Fessenden.  Once 
in  a  while  she  brings  something  in  to  sell.  She  had  les- 

49 


LOST  VALLEY 

sons  in  Boston,  and  now  her  mother's  gone,  she  has  more 
time,  I  guess.  I'd  be  real  glad  to  sell  it,  for  her  sake. 
She  needs  the  money,  I  b'lieve.  T'  tell  the  truth,  her  kind 
o'  paintin's  rather  gone  out.  I  don't  see  none  of  it  in 
Boston  nowadays.  But  it's  real  pretty,  an*  all  done  by 
hand.  Land  sakes,  I  can  remember  when  the  ladies 
thought  they'd  made  a  big  stroke  when  they  could  get 
Miss  Fessenden  to  donate  something  to  the  fancy  table 
at  the  church  fair.  But  china  paintin'  seems  to  've  gone 
out  o'  fashion.  Maybe  it's  that,  and  maybe  it's  because 
she  can't  afford  to  donate  as  well  as  she  used  to  before 
her  father  died." 

"How  much  is  it?"  Madge  repeated.  She  had  listened 
to  Mrs.  Benner's  remarks,  but  she  had  never  once  taken 
her  eyes  off  the  vase,  with  its  lurching  sprays  of  goldenrod. 

Mrs.  Benner  eyed  her  shrewdly.  "I  don't  make  a  cent 
off  it,  Miss  Lockerby.  I  told  her  I'd  sell  it  f'r  two  dollars 
if  I  could.  But  I  guess  she'd  be  glad  of  a  dollar  and  a 
half.  It's  been  here  quite  a  spell." 

"I'll  take  it." 

Madge  pushed  aside  the  thought  of  the  spavin  cure. 
She  had  meant  to  put  goldenrod,  in  a  white  pitcher,  on 
Arthur  Burton's  table.  But  when  she  had  once  seen  the 
vase,  with  the  goldenrod  frankly,  though  waveringly, 
featured  on  its  awkward  sides,  she  knew  that  she  could 
never  bear  to  place  the  flowers  in  anything  else — certainly 
not  in  the  old  quart  pitcher  with  the  broken  nose.  Mr 
Burton  was  an  artist.  .  .  .  Goldenrod  painted  on  the  vase, 
real  goldenrod  falling  in  heavy  plumes  over  the  side — 
and  yellow  ribbons  (off  her  mother's  dimity  dress  in  the 
trunk)  tying  back  the  muslin  curtains.  .  .  .  She  saw  it  all 
in  one  flash.  She  could  not  have  left  the  store  without 
Miss  Fessenden's  vase  unless  physically  forced  to.  Her 
hand  trembled  as  she  held  out  the  money.  It  seemed  as 
if  Mrs.  Benner  would  never  get  through  wrapping  it,  as 
50 


LOST  VALLEY 

if  she  would  never  have  it  safe  in  her  own  hands,  her 
fingers  proudly  possessive. 

"There!  I'm  real  pleased.  Mabel  will  run  right  over 
to  her  with  the  money,"  said  Mrs.  Benner. 

"I'm  pleased,  too.  I  think  it's  beautiful,"  murmured 
Madge.  "I'm  going  to  put  goldenrod  in  it." 

"To  be  sure.     That  '11  be  handsome." 

Mrs.  Benner's  eyes,  widening  with  wonder,  followed 
Madge  as  the  girl  departed  into  the  general  store.  After 
Madge's  back  was  lost  to  her,  she  walked  swiftly  through 
the  door  that  led  from  the  dry-goods  department  into  the 
L  of  her  own  house.  Her  daughter  sat  at  a  window,  trim 
ming  a  blue  hat  with  loops  of  crimson  ribbon. 

"Mabel!  You  run  right  over  to  Miss  Fessenden  with 
this  dollar  and  a  half.  I've  sold  her  vase." 

"Mercy!    Who  to?" 

"The  Lockerby  girl  from  over  Lost  Valley.  Don't  you 
tell  Miss  Fessenden  who  bought  it  if  you  can  help  it.  Tell 
her  'twa'n't  one  of  our  regular  customers.  That's  true 
enough.  They  hardly  buy  anything  from  year's  end  to 
year's  end.  I'd  kind  o'  hate  to  have  Miss  Fessenden 
know  her  work  went  off  to  any  of  the  Valley  folks.  She'd 
ought  to  be  glad  to  have  it  bought  at  all,  it's  so  old 
fashioned,  but,  I  declare,  the  Fessendens  always  have 
been  proud  as  peacocks,  an'  if  she  c'n  think  some  of  those 
summer  folks  come  along  and  took  it,  it  '11  be  all  the 
better.  I  hoped  the  new  minister's  wife  would  buy  it, 
but  she  does  poker-work  herself,  an'  I  guess  artists  don't 
appreciate  each  other  much.  But  you  could  'a'  knocked 
me  over  with  a  feather  when  the  Lockerby  girl  said  she'd 
take  it.  You  run  right  along,  Mabel.  I'll  take  that  hat 
into  the  store  an'  finish  it.  Don't  you  think  we'd  better 
put  the  bunch  of  Concord  grapes  on  an'  make  it  more 
dressy?  All  the  dressy  hats  in  Boston  have  somethin' 
besides  ribbon  on  'em.  Some  of  'em  don't  have  ribbon 

51 


tLOST  VALLEY 

at  all.  But,  land!  in  Siloam  you  got  to  have  ribbon — for 
church,  anyhow." 

Meanwhile  Madge  had  sought  out  Tom  Benner  and  re 
quested  Sage's  catalogue.  He  demurred  a  little  at  letting 
it  go  to  such  a  distance,  but  Madge,  still  exalted,  had 
plenty  of  her  strange  new  assurance. 

"Uncle  Andrew  '11  be  over — or  I  will — in  a  few  days, 
Mr.  Benner.  He's  going  to  get  a  new  mowing  machine, 
and  he  wants  to  study  out  the  best  kind.  ...  I  just  bought 
Miss  Fessenden's  vase  in  there.  I'm  so  pleased.  It  was 
exactly  what  I  wanted.  Mrs.  Benner  was  pleased,  too,  to 
sell  it  for  Miss  Fessenden,  so  it's  nice  all  round." 

She  shifted  her  packages  comfortably  and  waited  for 
the  catalogue. 

"All  right.  You  tell  Andrew  I've  got  to  have  it  back 
by  next  week.  I  expect  a  good  lot  of  orders  this  winter 
for  farm  machinery  of  one  sort  or  another." 

"Of  course.  He  or  I  '11  bring  it  back  in  a  few  days. 
Maybe  he'll  come  in  himself  and  talk  to  you  about  it." 

Tom  Benner  went  out  to  the  door  with  Madge  and 
gazed  at  the  vehicle  that  had  brought  her.  There  was 
no  sign  of  prosperity  there.  The  buckboard  was  as  dilapi 
dated  as  ever,  and  the  horse  was  Andrew  Lockerby's  old 
sorrel  he  had  seen  these  ten  years.  He  scratched  his  head 
in  perplexity  as  she  gathered  up  the  reins  and  drove  off. 

Climbing  slowly  up  the  pass  in  the  late  afternoon, 
Madge  had  time  to  consider  the  reproaches  that  would 
meet  her  when  she  had  to  display  Miss  Fessenden's  vase 
instead  of  a  bottle  of  spavin  cure.  She  wouldn't  have 
done  otherwise  if  she  had  the  chance  to  go  back  and  begin 
afresh;  yet  she  dreaded  what  her  uncle  might  say.  Her 
act  had  been,  as  she  well  knew,  one  of  pure  and  exquisite 
folly:  so  pure  and  exquisite  that  it  belonged  in  Arcadia 
rather  than  in  Bedlam.  But  Andrew  Lockerby  had  never 
pastured  sheep  in  Arcadia. 


LOST  VALLEY 

It  was  inevitable  that  as  she  topped  the  pass  and  de 
scended  into  the  familiar  and  accursed  loveliness  of  Lost 
Valley,  her  courage  should  ebb.  In  Siloam,  she  had  for 
gotten,  for  a  little:  forgotten  Granny,  the  poverty  of  the 
farm,  even  Lola — forgotten  everything  she  was  tied  to. 
The  only  vision  she  had  had  was  that  of  her  uncle's  room 
decked  out  for  a  stranger;  swept  and  garnished,  fresh 
curtained,  bright  with  goldenrod — almost  like  a  room  in 
another  house.  The  vase,  to  her  humble  imagination, 
made  all  the  difference:  it  represented  the  first  step  over 
the  line  to  luxury.  It  was  absolutely  nonessential.  Per 
haps  Madge  Lockerby  would  never  be  quite  the  same  per 
son  again  after  claiming  for  herself,  in  Benner's  store,  the 
right  to  something  not  necessary  to  keep  her  body  alive. 
She  had  scarcely,  as  yet,  apprehended  beauty;  but  her 
spirit,  though  hesitatingly,  had  apprehended  freedom. 
She  was  ready  to  defend  her  paltry  gesture  of  inde 
pendence.  But  she  would  fight  fair.  Her  eyes,  fixed  on 
their  barren  pastures  across  the  Valley,  saw  them  not. 
She  was  lost  instead  in  a  vision  of  herself  meeting  Andrew 
and  explaining,  forestalling  a  scene,  offering  restitution. . . . 
Yet  not  for  anything  in  the  world  would  she  give  the  vase 
up.  She  couldn't,  anyhow.  Miss  Fessenden  had  the 
money  by  this  time.  There  was  no  possibility  of  the 
vase's  being  returned  and  exchanged  for  a  bottle  of 
spavin  cure. 

Her  eyes,  so  busy  protecting  her  inner  vision  against 
impingement  of  the  outer  scene,  had  not  warned  her  of  a 
human  figure  approaching  along  the  road  and  halting  for 
her  at  the  bridge.  She  was  almost  upon  the  man  when 
she  saw  him,  and  reined  in,  with  a  hurried  mechanical 
gesture.  She  had  no  desire  for  speaking  to  Bert  Breen, 
but  she  could  not  run  him  down.  Anger  flared  in  her, 
that  he  should  have  placed  himself  so  unnecessarily  in 
her  way.  But  he  forced  her  to  stop. 

53 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Hello,  Madge!    Been  to  Siloam?" 

"Yes.    And  I'm  in  a  hurry  to  get  back." 

"All  right.  I  ain't  goin'  to  keep  you.  Saw  you  comin* 
down  the  pass  an*  thought  it  would  save  me  a  trip  acrost. 
Goin'  to  hev  a  corn  huskin'  to  our  place  a  week  come 
Tuesday.  Want  you  folks  to  come  over." 

"I'll  tell  Uncle  Andy.    He'll  come,  I  guess." 

"  Oh,  pshaw !  We  want  the  whole  bunch.  Corn  buskin's 
nothing  without  the  girls.  You  come  along  an'  fetch 
Lola." 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  clucking  to  the  horse. 
"We're  going  to  have  a  boarder  for  a  spell." 

"You  don't  say!" 

"Um-mm.  A  friend  of  John  Lawrence's.  Mr.  Law 
rence  was  here  last  week.  Maybe  you  didn't  see  him." 

The  quiet  scorn  of  her  voice  angered  Bert  Breen,  but 
he  could  think  of  no  retort. 

"No,  I  didn't.  Guess  he's  forgotten  where  his  father 
used  to  get  his  cider.  If  he  came  to  look  at  the  old  Law 
rence  place,  I  don't  wonder  he  made  tracks.  Well,  bring 
your  boarder  along  to  the  huskin'.  Hope  it's  a  lady." 
He  grinned. 

"No.  It's  a  gentleman."  She  underlined  the  word  as 
she  moved  off. 

"If  I  was  you,  Madge" — the  taunting  words  followed 
her  only  too  clearly — "I'd  keep  gentlemen  out  o'  Lola's 
way.  Maybe  you'd  better  send  her  over  to  us  while  you 
got  a  boarder." 

Madge  flung  back  no  reply.  She  set  her  helpless  face 
to  the  west.  The  breeze  that  springs  up  sometimes  at  the 
end  of  the  day  cooled  the  burning  crimson.  She  knew  she 
would  have  to  go  to  the  corn  husking — last  remnant  in 
the  Valley  of  those  communal  activities  which  had  once 
been  part  and  parcel  of  local  polity,  serving,  only  less 
than  the  common  religion,  to  cement  society.  "  Church  " 
54 


LOST  VALLEY 

was  pretty  well  forgotten  in  Lost  Valley  now;  of  all  the 
old  collective  pursuits — singing  school,  quilting  bees, 
sugarings-off,  barn  raisings — nothing  was  left  but  an  in 
frequent  corn  husking.  Social  intercourse  and  mutual 
assistance  alike  had  faded  from  the  Valley  which  had 
relinquished  the  traditions  of  its  forefathers.  These  soli 
tary  stragglers  had  lost  the  sense  of  the  common  weal. 
They  were  too  handicapped,  two  few,  too  sunk  in  in 
dividual  misery.  The  corn  husking  was  the  one  symbol 
left  to  which  they  responded  in  the  ancient  way.  Yes, 
she  would  have  to  go. 

Dejected,  she  drove  into  the  littered  yard.  The  fever  of 
her  adventure,  however,  still  burned  hi  her,  though  it 
flickered  sadly.  While  she  still  felt  some  of  the  magic  of 
Siloam  about  her,  she  thought,  she  would  tell  her  uncle 
just  what  she  had  done — not  wait  till  evening,  when  her 
accustomed  barriers  had  resumed  her.  Madge  did  not  so 
much  reflect  or  plan  as  feel  instinctively  that  she  was  still 
able  to  face  her  uncle  and  had  better  get  it  over. 

She  sought  him  out  after  she  had  unharnessed  the  horse. 

"I  got  your  catalogue,  Uncle  Andy.  Mr.  Benner  says 
he'll  want  it  back  next  week.  I  told  him  you  were  going  to 
buy  a  mowing  machine.  And  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I 
didn't  buy  the  spavin  cure.  I  didn't  have  enough  money." 

"Gosh  a'mighty,  how  much  did  you  pay  for  them 
curtains?" 

"No  more  'n  I  had  to.  But  I  bought  a  vase  for  a  dollar 
and  a  half." 

"A  what?" 

"Listen,  Uncle.  It's  no  good  for  you  and  me  to  quarrel. 
Maybe  I  shouldn't  have  done  it,  but  I  did.  It  can't  be 
exchanged,  because  Miss  Fessenden  put  it  in  Benner's  to 
sell,  and  Mrs.  Benner  was  going  to  take  the  money  right 
over  to  her.  She  said  Miss  Fessenden  needed  it  dread 
fully.  Now — I  tell  you.  You  were  going  to  give  me 
5  55 


LOST  VALLEY 

twenty-five  dollars  of  the  board  money.  You  needn't 
give  me  but  twenty.  I'll  make  out  for  Lola  and  me  on 
that.  But  I  just  had  to  have  the  vase,  after  I  saw  it.  It  '11 
keep  me  cheerful,  lots  of  times.  And  I  guess,  with  that 
vase  in  his  room,  we  can  hold  up  our  heads  before  Mr.  Bur 
ton.  It  '11  look  like  folks." 

These  were  all  her  arguments,  and  she  waited — brave 
still,  but  a  little  fearful.  Andrew  Lockerby  stood  before 
her,  bent  over  the  pitchfork  with  which  he  had  been 
tossing  down  hay  for  the  cattle.  His  back  was  to  the  sun 
set,  and  the  light  was  dim  on  his  features.  Only  his 
gnarled  and  broken  contours  seemed  bitten  blackly  into 
the  crimson  sky  behind  him.  He  was  symbolic,  porten 
tous,  impersonal.  Madge  stared  at  him  as  he  stood  there 
hunched  in  silence,  wondering  whether  despair  or  anger 
was  keeping  him  from  speech.  Round  them,  the  reek  of 
the  farmyard,  the  piled  disorder  of  broken  and  rusted 
trash,  the  animal  debris,  and  the  mean,  much-trodden  soil, 
the  trivial  cluck  of  fowls,  the  decayed  and  sagging  lines  of 
degenerate  buildings,  seemed  to  blend  together  in  a  dark 
and  sordid  picture  that  attacked  all  the  senses  at  once, 
with  its  overwhelming  evidence  of  human  bitterness  and 
decay.  Madge  could  not  see  herself,  straight  and  hand 
some,  facing  the  western  glow,  her  delicate  youth  and  her 
spirited  virtue  the  very  answer  to  that  satanic  challenge, 
the  visible  retort  to  rust  and  barrenness  and  dung.  Her 
eyes  fed  full  on  the  desolation  and  the  dark  central  figure 
of  her  uncle.  She  wondered  what  reproach  would  well 
out  of  his  brooding  attitude.  She  dug  her  heel  into  the 
ground,  thinking  desperately  what  more  she  could  say. 

Andrew  Lockerby  spoke  without  lifting  his  eyes,  with 
out  mitigating  his  uncouth,  tortured  posture,  hunched, 
still,  like  a  Rodin  nightmare  against  the  west. 

"  Kind  o'  foolish,  I'd  say  if  you'd  asked  me.  A  man  who 
ain't  goin'  to  be  here  but  a  few  weeks.  But  if  you  had  to 
56 


LOST  VALLEY 

throw  away  money,  I'd  as  soon  it  was  thrown  away  on 
Lizzie  Fessenden,  not  on  Benner's  folks.  I  'ain't  seen  her 
for  years — not  since  she  an*  her  mother  an*  the  Judge 
used  to  ride  round  with  their  black  span.  I'm  sorry  to 
hear  she's  in  want.  She  was  always  a  delicate-lookin* 
woman,  an'  she  never  put  on  airs  like  her  mother  an'  the 
Judge.  I  used  to  think  'Lizzie  Fessenden  would  have 
luck.  But  she  'ain't  had  much  if  it  comes  to  sellin'  her 
handiwork  to  us." 

Madge  drew  a  deep,  strange  breath.  She  could  not 
have  foreseen  this;  but  she  clutched  at  her  deliverance. 

"Mrs.  Benner  says  china  painting  is  out  of  fashion. 
She'd  been  trying  to  sell  this  for  a  long  time.  She  sent 
Mabel  right  over  with  the  money — as  if  she  thought 
Miss  Fessenden  needed  it  dreadfully  bad." 

"It  ain't  right,  somehow."  The  words  came  perplexed, 
yet  oracular,  from  the  immobile  figure.  "I  don't  say  you 
ought  to  have  flung  away  good  money,  Madge,  but  I 
will  say,  if  money's  to  be  spent  for  flimflams,  I'd  ruther 
have  it  buy  a  few  square  meals  for  Lizzie  Fessenden  than 
to  make  Tom  Benner  a  little  more  prosperous.  I  don't 
grudge  it  to  her." 

"Want  to  see  it?"  Madge  was  still  bewildered,  but  she 
leaped  to  the  notion  that  Miss  Fessenden  had  once  spelled 
romance  for  her  uncle. 

"Sakes,  no!  I  never  spoke  to  Lizzie  Fessenden  in  my 
life,  's  I  know  of;  but  I  don't  believe  she  ever  made 
anything  wuth  lookin'  at.  But  it  kind  o'  gets  up  my 
dander  to  this  day  to  think  how  the  Judge  an'  his  wife 
swelled  round  and  wouldn't  let  their  daughter  do  nothin* 
useful,  an'  then  let  her  come  to  peddlin'  trash  for  a  livin'. 
If  they  was  goin'  to  dress  her  in  silk  while  she  was  young, 
they  should  'a'  seen  to  it  she  had  somethin'  beside  rags  to 
die  in."  He  chuckled  grimly.  "I  ain't  beyond  admittin', 
Madge,  that  it  gives  me  satisfaction  to  think  that  poor 

57 


LOST  VALLEY 

critter's  got  some  Valley  money.     She  'ain't  had  a  fair 

show." 

The  Lockerby  pride  had  grown  gnarled,  along  with 

the   Lockerby   soul,   but  it  was   still   there,   protesting 

against  extinction. 

Madge  carried  her  packages  into  the  house  and  set  the 

vase  on  a  high  shelf  in  Andrew  Lockerby's  room,  where 

neither  Granny  nor  Lola  would  be  apt  to  espy  it.    Through 

the  open  window  her  uncle  called  to  her: 
"Did  you  bring  back  any  change,  Madge?" 
She  counted  hastily.    "Twenty-seven  cents." 
"Humph!     Why  didn't  you  buy  Lizzie  Fessenden  a 

new  handkerchief  while  you  were  about  it?     Dare  say 

she  needs  one.  .  .  .  I'll  take  it." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  she  passed  the  coins 

to  him  across  the  sill.    He  turned  back  to  the  barn,  and 

Madge  with  a  sudden  choke  of  anger  slammed  the  window 

down. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

MADGE  LOCKERBY  threaded  her  way  slowly 
through  the  woods  that  overhung  Lost  Brook. 
The  midday  sun  struck  through  the  leaves,  making  wild 
patterns  on  her  rough  blue  dress;  patterns  that  shifted 
dizzyingly  as  she  lifted  a  bough,  brushed  twigs  aside, 
rounded  a  boulder,  avoided  a  rivulet  or  a  little  welling 
spring.  One  arm  was  crooked  over  a  thermos  bottle; 
the  other  surrounded  an  old  basket  in  which  lay  food 
under  a  coarse  napkin.  Arthur  Burton  would  be  up  by 
the  old  cider  mill,  waiting  for  his  luncheon — stretched  out, 
probably,  on  a  flat  sun-soaked  rock,  listening  to  the 
complex,  delicious  sound  of  the  hidden  falls. 

To  do  Arthur  Burton  justice,  he  had  not  asked  this 
service  of  his  hostess.  He  had  intended  from  the  first 
to  carry  food  with  him  when  he  left  the  farm  in  the 
morning.  But  Madge  pleaded  the  hurry  of  her  many 
chores  and  insisted  that  it  was  easier  to  prepare  his  simple 
luncheon  later,  in  the  slacker  hours  of  morning,  and  take 
it  to  him.  When  he  saw  what  farm  hours  were,  he  agreed. 
He  had  offered  to  come  back  and  eat  with  the  family, 
but  Madge  was  adamant.  The  only  meal  he  took  with 
the  Lockerby  household  was  supper — and  she  meant  to 
keep  it  so. 

"It's  not  heavy.  And  it  gives  me  an  excuse  to  get 
away  from  the  house  for  a  while.  It's  pretty,  down  by 
the  brook.  I  wouldn't  get  there  near  so  often  if  it  wasn't 
for  carrying  your  dinner." 

And  Arthur  Burton  paid  her  with  the  fatal  coin  of 
courtesy  and  idle  wandering  talk.  Mere  soliloquy,  often 

59 


LOST  VALLEY 

and  often;  for  the  dark  girl  bent  her  eyes  on  the  ripples 
of  the  pool  before  them,  and  seldom  answered.  Who  was 
she  to  talk  to  him,  she  humbly,  desperately  asked  her 
self;  while  her  brain  caught  at  every  revelation  of  happi 
ness,  beauty,  difference,  that  his  words  hung  before  her. 
It  was  not  only  in  books — the  ironic  conclusion  came  to 
her;  people  were  like  that;  they  lived,  free  and  happy, 
in  a  world  of  free  and  happy  creatures.  No  Grannies, 
no  Uncle  Andrews,  no  dangerous  neighbors — no  Lolas.  . .  . 
Step  by  step  she  renounced  the  vision  for  herself,  but 
she  could  not  forbid  her  memory  to  cherish  it,  or  her 
cheeks  sometimes  to  burn  with  the  intolerable  stress  of 
her  impulse  to  flee  captivity.  So  still  she  was,  so  cool, 
so  impersonal,  that  Arthur  Burton  could  not  think  of 
himself  as  imperiling  her  peace,  still  less  of  her  imperiling 
his.  Nor  was  either  fear  in  Madge's  mind.  She  was  wont 
to  take  the  sun  and  the  rain  as  they  came.  Arthur 
Burton  would  have  seemed  to  her  as  little  within  the  range 
of  modifiable  facts  as  the  uncreated  light.  He  set  her 
dreaming,  with  his  unconscious  reconstruction  of  the 
world  familiar  to  him,  but  she  laid  no  possessive  finger  on 
that  world,  set  no  timid  foot  on  those  precarious  stairways 
he  built  into  the  blue.  Arthur  followed  his  temperament, 
abounded  in  his  own  sense  of  life,  half  forgetting  she  was 
young  and  a  woman,  yet  never  omitting  his  habitual 
bow  and  scrape  to  a  petticoat.  The  new  fact  for  him  was 
Lost  Valley,  not  Madge  Lockerby. 

She  found  him  as  she  had  known  she  should,  stretching 
himself  out  that  every  inch  of  his  long  frame  might  cap 
ture  the  blessedness  of  the  sun.  Only  at  midday,  now, 
was  it  summerlike.  Arthur  Burton  forsook  work  to  take 
the  full  value  of  the  hour,  like  an  eager  lizard  who  is 
season-wise. 

He  was  so  content  in  every  nerve  that  he  merely  smiled 
at  her  without  speaking,  as  she  emerged  into  the  little 
60 


LOST  VALLEY 

glade  by  the  pool.^  The  old  cider  mill  was  behind  them. 
She  set  her  burden  on  a  gaping  wooden  sill,  all  powdery 
with  decay.  Arthur  patted  a  leaf -strewn  patch  of  grass 
beside  the  flat  rock  on  which  he  lay. 

"It's  all  dry  here.  I  felt  it  awhile  ago.  Sit  down  and 
look  at  these  ridiculous  minnows  while  I  finish  my  im 
moral  cigarette." 

"Immoral?" 

"Yes,  because  one  shouldn't  smoke  just  before  eating. 
On  the  other  hand,  one  has  to  smoke  just  after  working. 
It's  as  I  always  said:  you  can't  keep  all  the  command 
ments  at  once.  They  destroy  one  another." 

Madge  thought  a  moment,  then  said  bluntly:  "I  guess 
you  can  keep  all  the  Ten  Commandments  at  once — if  you 
really  try." 

"Oh,  the  Ten,  yes.  But  a  man  can't  get  through  life 
on  only  ten.  There  are  about  a  thousand  others.  Some 
of  them  don't  jibe  with  the  Ten  at  all.  Still,  I  admit 
that  if  you  did  absolutely  nothing  else,  every  waking 
moment,  you  might  keep  the  Ten  Commandments.  But 
it's  a  whole  profession  in  itself  and  quite  unfits  you  for  any 
work.  You'd  have  to  have  an  independent  fortune  to  do 
it — and  you  certainly  couldn't  paint  pictures  meanwhile." 

"Why  not?" 

Her  face  was  still  averted  from  him.  Arthur  grinned 
happily  and  picked  up  a  twig  that  looked  proper  to  his 
purpose. 

"You  can't  paint  pictures  without  taking  the  name  of 
the  Lord  in  vain,"  he  averred  gravely.  Then  having 
bent  the  twig  as  he  wished,  he  flung  it  at  her  temple.  She 
turned,  startled  and  rubbing  her  cheek. 

"Excuse  me.  I  threw  it  so  you  would  look  at  me." 
He  smiled.  "Let's  not  talk  about  the  Ten  Command 
ments.  A  lot  of  prosperous  people  are  paid  to  do  that, 
once  a  week  in  church.  I  can't  afford  it." 

61 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Do  you  mean  you  can't  paint  without  swearing?" 

"Oh,  literal  Miss  Madge,  yes!" 

She  turned  her  head  away.  "  I  hate  swearing,"  she  said, 
briefly. 

Arthur  may  have  guessed  dimly  what  to  her  were  the 
inevitable  contexts  of  profanity.  "Oh,  cheer  up!'*  he  ex 
claimed.  "In  French — which  I've  talked  more  of  late 
years  than  English — you  swear  all  kinds  of  ways.  Most 
of  their  swear-words  don't  mention  God  at  all."  He 
clutched  at  futility,  for  he  was  feeling  very  idle.  "  If  you 
said  'damn*  in  French — just  like  that — it  would  be  like 
saying  'Oh  dear.'" 

"Yes,  but  it  would  be  spelled  differently.  It  wouldn't 
mean  '  damn '  as  we  say  it.  It  means — *  lady, '  doesn't  it  ?  " 

He  felt  rebuked — whether  most  for  sophistry  or  idiocy 
he  hardly  knew.  Anyhow,  he  felt  he  must  change  the  silly 
subject. 

"Have  you  studied  French?" 

"Only  a  little.  I  have  some  French  books  in  the  attic 
that  belonged  to  my  mother.  A  friend  of  hers — Miss 
Martin,  over  in  Siloam — was  going  to  teach  it  to  me,  but 
that  was  a  long  time  ago.  Of  course  I  can't  run  back  and 
forth  for  lessons.  And  I  don't  have  time  to  study  any  by 
myself  any  more.  But  I  always  meant  to  get  so  I  could 
read  all  the  books  that  belonged  to  my  mother.  She  died 
when  I  was  a  baby." 

"Oh — when  your  sister  was  born."  He  made  the  state 
ment  idly,  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  replying  something. 

"No.  Before  that.  Lola's  mother's  dead,  too.  We — 
we  don't  talk  about  her." 

He  did  not  question  her  further.  Like  a  sudden  light 
ning  flash,  her  simple  words  made  lurid  a  gloomy  scene. 
Dimness  and  vagueness  shifted,  with  a  leap,  into  sharp 
uncanny  contours.  There  was  drama — tragedy — at  the 
sick  heart  of  the  Lockerby  household.  He  felt  very  sorry 
62 


LOST  VALLEY 

for  the  girl,  suffering  somehow  beside  him  there  in  the 
sunlit  peace.  He  would  have  liked  to  put  out  his  hand  and 
cover  hers,  in  sympathy;  but  the  mere  hint  of  all  that  old 
passion  with  its  sordid  issues,  stayed  him.  He  could  not 
quite  piece  the  tale  together,  but  in  all  probability  this 
girl  had  learned  to  hate  men.  He  cast  about  for  words 
indirectly  sympathetic. 

"Lola  is  lovely  to  look  at,  isn't  she?" 

Madge's  face  brightened.  "I  think  she  is.  She's  like  a 
picture."  Then  she  turned  to  him  with  an  awkward 
impulse  of  confidence.  "  Of  course  you've  seen — she's  like 
a  child.  Lola's  good,  but  she  isn't  as  old  as  her  age.  And 
I'm  dreadfully  afraid  for  her.  Some  folks  in  the  Valley 
are  bad.  Things  happen  that  ought  not  to.  I  try  to  keep 
her  away  from  everybody.  And  I  try  to  teach  her.  But 
it's  hard  for  her  to  learn — and  she  just  naturally  trusts 
people.  I — I — "  Madge  broke  down. 

"Yes— you— ?" 

"I  hate  to  take  her  over  to  the  husking  to-night.  But 
I  suppose  she's  got  to  go.  Bert  Breen's  bad,  and  his  wife's 
bad.  They  say  she's  got  gypsy  blood.  I've  tried  to  think 
out  what  I  could  do.  We'll  have  to  go,  and  Lola'd  break 
her  heart  if  we  left  her.  Besides,  I  don't  know  as  'twould 
be  safe  to  leave  her.  She'll  see  everybody  at  the  husking 
— all  the  folks  I  try  to  keep  her  away  from.  And  they'll 
make  jokes  and  do  rough,  silly  things.  .  .  ." 

She  dried  her  eyes  suddenly.  "There!  I'm  silly  my 
self.  You  being  different — I  guess  you  can't  understand. 
But,  you  see,  I  couldn't  go  to  Siloam  or  anywhere  much, 
and  leave  Lola.  Uncle's  busy,  and  Granny  is  childish. 
And  Lola's  the  one  I  love.  There  don't  anybody  else  love 
her.  She's  just  got  me.  If  God  '11  let  me  take  care  of  Lola 
and  keep  her  from  harm  as  long  as  she  lives,  I  don't  be 
lieve  I'd  have  a  right  to  ask  for  anything  else,  would  I?" 

Arthur  Burton  gave  Madge  Lockerby  a  long  look.  Her 

63 


LOST  VALLEY 

philosophy  was  beyond  his  robust  hedonism,  but  he  had 
no  right  to  trouble  such  heroism  with  casuistry.  He  felt 
sharp  pity  for  the  waste  it  involved.  Madge  pleased  his 
eye  even  more  than  Lola.  She  might  please  many  a  man's 
eye,  for  that  matter,  outside  this  crazy  valley.  It  was  not 
for  him  to  confuse  her  notions  of  sacrifice  or  preach  the 
gospel  of  the  right  to  happiness.  He  saw  her  doomed; 
and  the  thought  of  the  probable  length  of  Lola's  life  wrung 
from  him  an  audible  groan  of  pure  altruistic  regret.  This 
girl's  martyrdom  would  haunt  him.  To  chaperone  a 
half-wit  for  the  next  twenty  years,  and  in  conditions  like 
these !  With  that  beauty,  that  power  for  giving  and  find 
ing  happiness. . . .  And  she  seemed  to  take  it  quite  simply. 

"I  know  of  hardly  anyone,  anywhere,  who  has  such 
a  beautiful  place  to  live  in  as  you  have,"  he  said,  quietly. 
The  beauty  of  the  valley  would  have  been  the  only  thing 
that  could  give  him  comfort  in  her  place,  and  he  tried 
tactfully  to  dwell  on  it. 

"It  is  a  sightly  place,"  she  answered.  "I'd  ought  to 
be  thankful.  But  I'm  afraid  I'd  rather  live  in  Bartlett's 
Mills.  'Tisn't  that  I  want  excitement.  It's  only  that — I 
wonder  if  you  know  how  a  body  feels.  .  .  ."  She  sank  her 
voice,  and  went  on  slowly,  not  looking  at  him,  as  if  in 
solitary  meditation.  "There's  times  when  your  blood 
pounds  at  you — as  if  it  was  trying  to  tell  you  that  there 
are  other  things  to  do  than  redd  up  a  house  and  cook  and 
feed  dumb  animals.  Things  that  it  'd  be  all  right  for 
you  to  do — .  Oh,  as  if  God  was  calling  you  to  come  away 
out  of  the  Valley — as  if  it  was  the  devil's  fault  you  were 
here,  and  God  never  meant  it  so.  As  if  you  were  meant 
to  learn  things  and  see  things  you  never  can  find  in  this 
place.  I  s'pose  it's  just  temptation.  ...  I  tremble  all 
over  sometimes;  and  it's  not  because  I  feel  sick,  it's  be 
cause  I  feel  well.  ...  I  guess  I  better  not  talk  about  it 
any  more.  I'll  go  home  now." 
64  ' 


LOST  VALLEY 

The  shadow  that  had  lifted  for  a  moment  fell  back  upon 
her  beautiful  face.  She  rose. 

There  was  nothing,  Burton  realized,  for  him  to  say, 
though  diagnosis  of  her  case  was  now  easy  to  him.  She 
didn't  feel  sick:  she  felt  well.  It  was  all  there.  And  she 
must  pass  by  all  the  ways  of  health  to  dwell  in  miasmic 
regions  of  sacrifice.  The  old,  silly,  saintly  mutilations! 
There  was  some  point  in  going  into  a  convent.  He  could 
see  that,  though  it  would  never  be  his  way.  But  he  had 
no  intellectual  patience  with  austerities  that  were  not 
recompensed  with  definite  mystical  ecstasies.  Madge 
Lockerby  in  all  probability  was  as  incapable  of  ecstasy 
as  he,  He  and  she  were  both  Valley  stock.  He  shivered 
a  little  under  his  sense  of  kinship.  Yet  there  was  at  the 
back  of  his  mind  a  faint,  not  unpleasant  stir  of  loyalty. 
They  had  nothing  in  common,  as  their  lives  lay  plotted 
out;  still,  the  graveyard  on  the  farther  side  of  Barker's 
Hill  had  unquestionably  bred  them  both.  In  the  large 
sense,  they  were  identical  bits  of  valiant  dust.  It  did  not 
go  further  with  Arthur  Burton  than  pleasurable  pity. 
Simply,  he  did  not  shrink  from  the  spectacle  of  her  plight 
as  we  shrink  (in  spite  of  what  we  may  conscientiously 
do)  from  a  completely  alien  sorrow — a  Hottentot's  tooth 
ache,  a  gypsy's  welt-schmerz.  John  Lawrence,  had  he 
known,  would  have  looked  down  on  them  with  kindly, 
though  anxious,  eyes. 

Madge  stood  silent,  during  his  moment  of  quick  intro-^ 
spection.  She  expected  no  reply,  as  he  saw  with  relief. 

"Will  you  go  to  the  husking?"  she  asked. 

"That  is  for  you  to  say.  I'll  do  just  as  you  tell  me." 
He  stood  now  erect  and  courteous,  the  bend  of  his  head  a' 
little  deferent. 

"I  wish  you  would." 

"Then  of  course  I  will — if  you're  sure  I'm  invited." 

"Oh,  you're    invited!"    Her  mouth   twisted,  as    she 

65 


LOST  VALLEY 

thought  of  Bert  Breen.  "If  Bert  Breen  says  anything  he 
shouldn't,  I  guess  you  can  answer  him." 

The  unpleasant  suspicion  crossed  Arthur's  mind  that 
this  yokel  was  half  expected  to  make  rude  comments  on 
him  and  Madge  Lockerby.  He  suppressed  a  grimace. 

"He's  always  bothering  Lola,"  she  explained.  "If  you 
didn't  mind  helping  me  look  after  her  a  little  . . .  just  head 
him  off  if  he  teases  her.  He'll  be  busy  to-night  anyway — 
but  Bert  Breen's  never  too  busy  to  make  people  miserable." 

"Why  on  earth  do  you  go,  if  you  don't  want  to?"  he 
exclaimed. 

She  shook  her  head.  "Folks  always  do.  They'd  think 
you  were  mean,  not  to.  It  helps  'em  out." 

"I  see.  It's  a  custom — like  the  vintage  revels  in 
France." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  but  I  guess  you'd  say  it 
was  a  custom.  We  won't  have  much  supper  at  home 
to-night.  There  '11  be  plenty  to  eat  at  Breens'." 

Arthur  Burton's  pity  was  still  quick  within  him, 
though  there  was  nothing  he  could  do,  except  be  more 
than  usually  amiable.  "Then  why  don't  you  stay  and 
eat  lunch  with  me — if  you  don't  have  to  cook?" 

Madge  laughed.  The  note  of  sheer  mirth  welled  from 
her  throat.  "You're  so  funny,  Mr.  Burton!  I've  had 
my  dinner,  and  I've  left  the  dinner  dishes  as  it  is.  I've 
got  so  many  things  to  do  this  afternoon  that  I'll  have  to 
fly  round  to  get  them  done,  I  can  tell  you.  I  like  sitting 
here  by  the  brook — 'tisn't  that.  But — well,  there's  more 
to  do  on  a  farm  than  meets  the  eye  of  strangers,  I  guess, 
Mr.  Burton!"  Her  eyes  still  shining  humorously,  she  left 
him.  That  was  indeed  health,  he  thought — the  quick 
return,  the  leap  out  of  the  slough.  Oh,  she  was  well! 
And  before  turning  to  his  food,  he  watched  her  pass, 
unburdened  and  swift,  through  the  leafy  interstices  of 
the  wood. 


LOST  VALLEY 

Arthur  Burton,  facing  what  seemed  to  be  a  social 
function,  put  a  sketching  pad  into  his  pocket  quite 
mechanically.  He  did  not  know  what  he  would  be  called 
on  to  do  at  the  husking,  and  dreaded  it,  if  truth  were 
told,  extremely.  He  had  no  desire  to  husk  corn  awkwardly ; 
he  had  less  desire  to  try  to  make  merry  according  to  their 
unknown  traditions. 

"Do  they  dance?"  he  asked.    "I  can't." 

"You  can  do  a  Virginia  reel,  I  guess,"  rumbled  Andrew 
Lockerby.  "Madge,  here,  can  show  you  how." 

"And  about  the  husking,"  Arthur  went  on.  "I  sup 
pose  it's  a  kind  of  trick.  Can  I  learn  it  easily?" 

"If  you  can't,  they  won't  expect  it  of  you,"  Andrew 
returned,  dryly.  "Don't  forget,  if  you  get  a  red  ear,  you 
can  kiss  any  girl  you  want  to." 

"No  red  ears  in  mine,"  Arthur  muttered.  He  was  on 
the  front  seat  of  the  old  carry-all  with  Andrew,  and  only 
Andrew  heard.  Lockerby  chuckled.  "I'm  that  way 
about  it  myself,"  he  answered.  "If  I  got  a  red  ear,  I 
always  did  pick  out  somebody's  grandmother.  But 
young  fellers  usually  feel  different  about  it." 

"I  don't." 

Arthur  Burton  was  certainly  no  prude,  and  when  a  kiss 
was  expected  of  him  he  seldom  defaulted.  But  he  had  an 
indefinable  prejudice  against  profiting  by  the  licenses  of 
Lost  Valley.  He  was  sure  that  the  Valley  women  would 
present  no  temptation — except  perhaps  Madge  Lockerby, 
and  he  had  no  intention  of  saluting  her.  He  had  not 
brought  his  easy  code  to  bear  on  the  girl  as  yet;  his  reac 
tions  to  her  were  curiously  tempered  by  influences  he 
could  hardly  gauge:  the  sense,  for  instance,  that  they 
were — ironically,  uselessly,  yet  vitally — of  the  same 
strain,  born  of  the  same  accident  of  human  history.  His 
fantastic  respect  for  her  was  less  a  moral  recognition  than 
a  tardy  acknowledgment  of  his  origins.  Red  ear  or  no 

67 


LOST  VALLEY 

red  ear,  he  would  not  kiss  Madge  Lockerby — and  hardly, 
himself,  knew  why.  Rather  Granny,  though  the  thought 
made  him  physically  sick. 

It  was  Madge  who  saved  him  from  any  possibility  of 
having  to  choose.  Midway  of  the  evening's  business,  she 
whispered  to  him,  and  he  removed  himself  obediently  to 
the  row  of  rickety  chairs  where  the  superannuated  and 
the  infirm  sat.  It  was  a  terrible  exhibit,  he  thought;  and 
the  beauty  of  Lola,  spiritually  marred  though  it  was, 
was  tonic  to  him  as  he  glanced  about  at  Granny  and  her 
compeers. 

Lola  sat  playing  with  some  husked  ears,  crooning  softly 
to  herself  as  she  shuffled  them  about.  But  he  saw  what 
Madge  had  meant  by  her  whispered  words.  The  excite 
ment  of  numbers,  of  the  vast  hum  of  talk,  of  the  dancing 
and  shadows  and  colors  as  the  light  of  many  lanterns 
revealed  them,  was  telling  upon  her.  Like  a  dumb  animal, 
she  was  uneasy  and  cowed  by  the  unwonted  stir,  the 
different  scene;  and  yet,  in  all  too  human  fashion,  she  was 
beginning  to  respond,  with  flushed  cheek  and  glittering 
eye.  He  soothed  her,  played  with  her,  squatted  cross- 
legged  beside  her,  and  built  her  a  little  house  of  husks 
upon  the  floor. 

The  noise  grew  to  a  harsh  din,  as  the  rough  jokes  were 
bandied.  The  red  ears  were  rare,  and  as  the  piles  of 
unhusked  ears  dwindled,  more  excitement  attended  the 
casual  find.  One  gangling  youth,  discovering  a  red  ear 
in  his  hand,  fose  so  quickly  that  he  tipped  over  the  in 
verted  peck  measure  on  which  he  sat  and  sprawled  help 
lessly  on  the  floor.  Amid  the  riot  of  guffaws  and  friendly 
kicks,  Arthur  saw  Bert  Breen  stoop  and  snatch  the  ear 
from  the  boy's  hand  and  make  it  his  own. 

"No  fair!"  some  one  shouted,  but  Breen  was  halfway 
across  the  barn  floor. 

Burton  bent  forward  and  stretched  out  an  arm  to  pick 
68 


LOST  VALLEY 

up  a  strayed  ear  from  Lola's  heap.  The  gesture  was  per 
fectly  natural,  yet  the  arm  was  a  hurdle  Breen  would  have 
to  take  to  reach  the  girl.  Before  Bert  got  to  them,  he  was 
caught  and  dispossessed  by  the  rightful  owner  of  the  red 
ear,  and  presently  a  girl  with  squinting  eyes  was  slapping 
the  face  of  the  gangling  youth.  The  sense  of  the  crowd 
was  against  Bert  Breen,  and  he  passed  it  off  as  a  joke. 

The  piles  of  corn  were  nearly  cleared  away  by  nine 
o'clock,  and  the  Breens  and  their  intimates  busied  them 
selves  in  fetching  refreshments.  Rude  trestle  tables  had 
been  improvised,  and  Moll  Breen  with  a  few  other  women 
passed  in  and  out  with  pitchers  of  coffee  and  great  pans 
of  doughnuts.  There  were  pies,  too,  and  cakes.  Bert 
and  a  stoop-shouldered,  withered  representative  of  the 
Finches  dragged  in  a  cider  barrel.  Others  piled  the 
husked  ears  into  baskets  and  dragged  them  off;  some 
still  worked  feverishly  to  finish  the  husking. 

Arthur  Burton  took  out  his  sketching  pad.  The  lantern 
light,  sufficient  for  practical  purposes,  was  not  the  best 
ally  for  a  sketcher's  hand;  yet  no  servant  of  the  brush 
could  have  stared  into  that  scene  without  strong  tempta 
tion. 

Granny  Lockerby  sat  at  the  very  end  of  what  Arthur 
had  ironically  termed,  on  entering,  "dowagers'  row." 
A  coarse  patchwork  quilt  was  wrapped  around  her 
shrunken  knees.  Her  mop  of  short  hair  had  rough  wild 
contours,  and  her  lower  jaw  dropped  as  he  had  never  seen 
a  living  jaw  subside.  A  lantern  hung  on  a  hook  just 
beyond  her  head,  making  the  outlines  of  her  hair  look 
grotesquely  fixed.  She  had  been  sitting  in  a  half-somno 
lent  state,  but  the  scraping  of  stools  and  the  smell  of  food 
excited  her.  She  began  to  cluck  and  grunt.  Madge 
Lockerby,  whose  mind  was  never  wholly  clean  of  these 
human  impurities  over  which  she  had  been  set  as  guard, 
crossed  to  her  grandmother  with  a  cup  of  coffee.  Mindful 


LOST  VALLEY 

of  the  half -decencies  that  were  all  she  could  »hope  for,  she 
fed  the  coffee  to  Granny,  spoonful  by  spoonful,  and  kept 
her  from  clutching.  Anger  at  Bert  Breen's  attempt  had 
not  left  her:  it  still  lurked  in  the  curve  of  her  nostril,  the 
set  of  her  lips,  the  thrust  of  her  chin  and  of  her  shoulders. 

Arthur  Burton  worked  with  tense,  machinelike  speed. 
It  was  not  his  sort  of  subject,  but  a  fury  of  interest  pos 
sessed  him.  He  must  get  this  down,  some  inkling  of  this 
macabre  carnival,  for  a  future  reminder.  Once  out  of  the 
Valley,  he  would  perhaps  forget  that  night.  It  was  never 
good  to  forget  what  the  eyes  had  seen.  .  .  .  He  was  in  vein : 
he  captured  Granny's  loathsomeness  right  well,  with  his 
docile,  intuitive  crayon.  Madge,  too,  though  there  he 
worked  more  carelessly,  content  with  suggestive  outline. 
By  the  time  the  coffee  was  finished,  he  smiled  to  himself, 
content.  He  was  getting  wealth  out  of  his  commission 
that  John  Lawrence  had  never  dreamed  of  affording. 

Moll  Breen,  in  a  black  skirt  and  a  red-silk  waist  that 
pulled  a  little  over  her  ample  bosom,  crossed  to  where 
Arthur  was  sitting.  He  turned  his  pad  over  quickly  and 
rose  to  his  feet. 

"Ain't  you  goin*  to  join  us?"  Her  black  eyes  appraised 
him  coolly. 

"Thank  you.    I  should  like  a  cup  of  coffee  very  much." 

He  followed  her  and  took  a  steaming  cup  from  her 
coarse  hands.  He  could  not  sit  down.  Burton  was  not 
overfastidious,  but  these  folk  were  not  at  their  best  when 
satisfying  physical  appetite.  They  ate  awkwardly,  some 
times  coarsely.  The  business  of  feeding  themselves  was 
stripped  of  graces,  became  a  mere  matter  of  demand  and 
supply.  They  stretched  out  their  hands  for  what  they 
wanted  and  fed  themselves  with  the  fewest  possible  mo 
tions.  Dentistry  was  a  rare  extravagance  to  Valley 
dwellers,  and  many  of  them  worried  their  food  .  .  .  his 
incorrigible  eye  noted,  as  it  ranged  the  tables,  their  many 
70 


LOST  VALLEY 

idiosyncrasies — Abram  Finch,  who  had  but  a  few  outpost 
teeth  at  the  front,  and  Ma'am  Leffingwell,  who  chumped 
entirely  on  one  side,  her  head  a  little  thrown  over  to  the 
left,  like  an  ardent  dog  with  a  bone.  No,  he  could  not 
elbow  for  a  place  among  them.  He  heard  that  they  were 
going  to  dance  before  breaking  up.  He  turned  to  Mrs. 
Breen. 

"Will  you  dance  with  me?" 

"Humph!  I  s 'posed  you  had  it  all  fixed  up  with 
Madge." 

"  If  you  won't,  I  shall  have  to  ask  her,  as  I  don't  know 
anyone  else.  You  may  have  to  teach  me.  But  I  hope 
you  will." 

Arthur  did  not  wholly  understand,  himself,  this  im 
pulse  to  conciliate  the  swarthy  female  beside  him.  She 
seemed  to  him  as  much  a  thing  of  evil  as  Madge  Lockerby 
had  hinted:  as  bad,  perhaps,  as  her  slinking  husband. 
His  politeness  was  a  kind  of  sop  thrown;  a  decoy,  too,  to 
keep  her  off  the  Lockerbys.  It  was  like  engaging  an 
enemy  of  Madge  and  Lola,  and  giving  them  time.  And 
he  was  not  without  an  unexpressed,  not  wholly  selfish, 
fear  of  having  his  name  linked  with  Madge's. 

"Sure  I'll  dance  with  you.  Joe  Finch  has  gone  to  get 
his  fiddle."  She  smoothed  the  shiny  red  silk  across  her 
bust  with  a  preening  gesture  of  self-satisfaction. 

"Then  may  I  claim  you  when  they  begin?" 

She  laughed,  a  full-throated,  not  unmelodious  laugh. 
"Don't  know  as  I  can  get  on  with  that  kind  of  talk!" 
Her  glance,  unleashed,  roved  over  him  again,  reducing 
him  now  to  purely  male  terms. 

Moll  Breen  turned  away,  still  laughing  to  herself. 
"They'll  be  ready  pretty  soon."  She  busied  herself 
stacking  up  dishes  and  giving  orders  to  her  helpers. 
She  moved  not  lightly,  but  with  great  energy.  Burton 

crossed  the  barn  floor  to  recover  his  sketch  pad.    He  had 
6  71 


LOST  VALLEY 

left  it  on  the  chair  next  Lola's.     But  Madge  Lockerby 
was  before  him. 

"Here."  She  vouchsafed  only  the  one  word  as  she 
handed  it  to  him,  and  he  saw  at  once  what  he  had  done. 
He  wondered  in  that  shocking  instant  of  perception  if 
Moll  Breen's  worst  could  have  been  so  bad.  Strolling 
away  to  draw  Moll  Breen's  fire,  he  had  left  this  bomb  in 
the  rear.  It  was  a  pity,  a  hundred,  a  thousand  pities, 
yet  why,  after  all,  should  she  take  it  like  that?  He  found 
himself  in  the  midst  of  his  distress,  thinking  with  kindness 
of  Juanita,  of  the  "bunch"  who  at  least  paid  lip  service 
to  Art.  He  revolted  consciously  against  the  sense  of 
kinship  that  had  possessed  him;  he  wanted  to  break 
brutally  not  only  with  the  uncleanness  of  the  Valley,  but 
with  the  stupidity,  the  unawareness,  of  Madge  Lockerby 
herself.  He  was  sorry  if  the  sketch  had  hurt  her  feelings; 
but,  hang  it!  this  wasn't  his  world,  and  he  would  soon 
be  out  of  it.  He  wished  he  had  stuck  John  Lawrence 
more.  To  have  gone  to  the  husking,  with  all  it  entailed, 
was  worth  five  hundred :  to  be  involved,  even  by  the  mere 
meeting  of  eyes,  with  the  woman  Breen;  to  have  soiled 
his  spiritual  skin  by  contact  with  this  coarse  carnival; 
to  have  taken  his  toll  of  the  adventure  in  the  only  way 
open  to  him  and  to  be  accused  by  this  girl's  glance  of 
Heaven  knew  what  breach  of  Heaven  knew  what — it  was 
intolerable.  Arthur  Burton  was  naturally  kind;  there  was 
softness  in  most  of  his  impulses.  Even  now,  he  could 
almost  have  torn  the  sheet  in  pieces  and  let  them  flutter 
carelessly  to  the  floor.  But  not  quite — he  was  too  dis 
gusted.  He  put  the  pad  back  into  his  pocket  silently. 

The  Virginia  reel  closed  the  festivities.  Many  times 
during  that  simple  dance,  Arthur  Burton  felt  polluted 
by  the  hand  that  lay  within  his  own.  The  reel  gave 
blessedly  little  chance  for  contact,  but  Moll  Breen  flung 
over  its  deformed  stateliness  a  saturnalian  aura. 
72 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Didn't  find  a  red  ear,  did  you?"  she  murmured,  as 
they  went  down  the  middle. 

"No.    I  didn't  husk  long.    I  went  back  to  amuse  Lola." 

She  gripped  his  hands,  as  they  raced,  harder.  "You 
can  tell  Madge  Lockerby  from  me  that  if  she  ain't  lookin* 
for  trouble,  she'll  keep  the  girl  away  from  our  place." 

They  were  through,  now,  but  she  leaned  across  the 
next  scurrying  couple  and  spoke  a  little  louder.  "Bert's 
got  a  fancy  for  her.  You  can't  stop  a  man,  but  if  there's 
any  foolishness,  I'll  take  it  out  on  her.  You  can  tell 
Madge  Lockerby  she  better  keep  her  from  under  my 
hands.  Unless  Madge  is  too  busy  with  you." 

It  seemed  to  Arthur  Burton  that  the  words  were 
shouted  at  him,  though  he  knew  that  the  surrounding 
noise  and  activity  probably  drowned  them  from  all 
uninterested  ears.  He  gave  her  one  level  look  of  con 
tempt — enough  to  destroy  the  effect  of  all  that  he  had 
done,  but  irresistible.  And  soon,  thank  God,  the  reel 
was  over,  and  the  clatter  of  departure  began.  He  went 
straight  to  Lola,  who  was  limp  with  sleep,  and  helped  her 
on  with  her  things.  "  I'll  look  after  her,"  he  threw  over  his 
shoulder  to  Madge  Lockerby.  "Help  your  grandmother, 
and  we'll  get  off  as  soon  as  Mr.  Lockerby  is  ready  for  us." 
Madge's  eyes  were  cold,  but  she  obeyed  him. 

With  one  arm  about  the  sleepy  girl,  half  supporting  her 
drowsy  steps,  he  bade  the  Breens  good  night.  Bert 
Breen  made  no  attempt  at  the  manners  of  a  host.  His 
expression  lay  between  a  scowl  and  a  sneer.  But  Moll 
Breen  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed — so  loud  that 
people  turned  on  their  way  to  the  great  open  door  and  the . 
still  orchard. 

"Goin'  to  stay  on  the  job,  Mr.  Burton?"  she  asked. 

"No.     But  I  advise  you  to  stay  off  it,  Mrs.  Breen."! 
All  the  disgust  was  merged  for  the  nonce  into  his  supreme 
disgust  with  this  mass  of  restless  propensities,  this  evil 

73 


LOST  VALLEY 

intention  thickened  into  a  powerful  body.  His  sex  re 
volted  against  the  shameless  cry  of  hers;  the  very  quality 
of  her  flesh  and  blood  was  sinister.  He  did  not  even 
want  to  sketch  her.  He  wanted  to  forget. 

He  grasped  Lola  tighter  and  half  carried  her  to  the 
place  where  Andrew  was  waiting  for  them. 


CHAPTER 


SEVEN 


NOTHING  could  have  been  more  merciful  to  Madge, 
had  Burton  but  known  it,  than  his  merciless  proof 
of  how  he  must  needs  regard  Granny  Lockerby.  He  so 
little  looked  on  them  as  "folks,"  that  he  could  draw  the 
grandmother  brutally  like  that.  The  Lockerbys  were 
nothing  to  him.  If  he  had  seemed  to  sympathize  in 
her  colloquies  with  him  by  the  brook,  that  was  only 
deceitfulness — "manners."  The  sketch  was,  to  her  mind, 
the  equivalent  of  a  verbal  insult.  To  put  it  briefly,  a 
friend  would  have  pretended  to  ignore  Granny.  He  was 
not  a  friend. 

It  has  been  clearly  enough  written  for  all  who  have 
read  thus  far  that  Madge  Lockerby  was  destined  to  love 
Arthur  Burton  with  the  full  power  of  her  nature.  Things 
being  as  they  are,  that  portion  of  her  fate  was  settled 
when  John  Lawrence  invited  the  young  man  to  paint 
his  pictures.  Her  heart  was  ready  for  love  and  ripe  to 
fall;  her  youth  was  straining  at  the  barrier  before  she 
ever  clutched  his  letter  to  her  bosom.  Arthur  Burton 
would  have  had  hard  work  to  prevent  it.  He  would  have 
had  to  be  ill  favored  indeed — and  more  than  that,  uncouth 
or  unkind — not  to  attract  her  from  the  first.  His  courtesy 
had  begun  it;  and  each  word,  each  gesture,  had  fallen 
into  the  fatal  sequence.  He  had  every  grace  of  difference 
— and  if  some  of  his  differences  were  not  graces,  how  was 
she  to  know  that? 

But  though  we  may  purse  wise  lips  and  watch  the 
expected  happen,  Madge's  own  vision  had  not  this  clarity. 

75. 


LOST  VALLEY 

Each  day  of  unconsciousness  was  a  day  of  grace;  and 
the  generous  autumn  gave  her  many.  She  knew  that  her 
snatched  hours  at  his  side  were  different  from  any  others: 
that  not  even  in  Sarah  Martin's  parlor  had  she  so  felt  the 
loosing  of  mental  bonds.  There  were  moments  of  silence 
that  were  moments  of  pure,  aspiring,  formless  joy.  She 
welcomed  knowledge  and  the  stuff  of  dreams  even  at  the 
price  of  an  aching  awareness  that  a  dream  could  not  be  a 
hope.  She  was  bravely  grateful  for  the  material  of  make- 
believe,  even  while  she  saw  the  gates  clang  heavily  across 
all  avenues  of  ambition.  She  had  never  yet  said  to  her 
self,  or  permitted  herself  to  feel,  what  this  man  meant 
to  her;  so  she  was  spared,  on  the  night  of  the  husking, 
the  most  intimate  hurt.  The  arrows  had  begun  to  seek 
their  target,  but  they  were  not  yet  barbed. 

Still,  though  Madge's  common  sense  warned  her  against 
tragedy  making,  a  great  change  had  taken  place.  He  had 
pretended  deference;  he  had  treated  her  as  a  woman  and 
therefore  indefinably  his  superior.  Yet  the  fact  was  (his 
sketch  proved  it)  that  he  did  not  even  consider  the  Lock- 
erbys  his  equals.  Her  exaggerated  gratitude  would  not 
permit  reproaches;  but  he  must  see  that  she  could  not 
"feel  the  same." 

She  would  not  now  risk  going  to  him  by  the  brook  at 
luncheon  time.  When  he  began  to  paint  the  other  pic 
ture,  from  the  top  of  the  pass,  the  Leflingwell  boy  drove 
over  with  his  dinner.  He  never  saw  Madge  alone.  At 
first  he  had  been  all  for  apology,  for  explanation;  but  as 
the  days  went  on,  the  intention  staled.  Seeing  her  only 
with  the  others,  and  busied  about  the  farm,  he  felt  the 
cords  of  sympathy  go  slack.  "  Une  belle  sauvage,"  he  mur 
mured  to  himself;  and  worked  feverishly  to  shorten  his 
exile. 

It  came  to  pass  that,  one  golden  October  afternoon, 
Madge  climbed  again  through  the  thorny  pastures  to 
76 


LOST  VALLEY 

Barker's  Hill,  and  gazed  down  upon  her  prison.  Thanks 
to  old  phrases  of  Arthur's,  her  consciousness  of  its  beauty 
was  more  acute  and  reasoned  than  it  had  been,  all  those 
weeks  ago.  She  noted  contours  he  had  noted;  and  she 
knew  he  would  have  words  for  the  foliage  that  had  bright 
ened  to  carmine  and  crimson  during  their  estrangement. 
Across  from  her,  on  the  slope  of  Roundtop — not  so  far 
as  the  crow  flies,  for  the  Valley  is  very  narrow — she 
could  see  a  parti-colored  speck  that  was  Arthur  Burton, 
his  red  umbrella,  and  his  easel.  In  that  moment,  if  she 
could  have  dared  the  atmosphere,  she  would  have  flown 
across  to  him.  Her  desire  to  hear  his  light,  significant 
talk  became  suddenly  a  rending  pain.  But  all  the  Valley 
lay  between  them:  the  road  down,  the  road  across,  the 
road  up — nothing  for  wings,  a  weary  way  for  feet. 

Madge  pulled  her  handkerchief  from  her  pocket  and 
waved  it — on  the  chance  of  being  noticed,  a  childish  ges 
ture  born  of  unchildish  pain.  In  a  moment  the  red  speck 
of  the  umbrella  rocked  wildly  in  the  distance.  He  must 
have  seen.  He  had  wrenched  the  thing  from  its  socket 
and  was  using  it  to  reply.  She  watched  with  burning 
eyes.  The  red  speck  wavered  once  more  and  was  still. 
Tears  had  never  hurt  her  eyes  so  much  before,  and  she 
flung  herself  down  on  the  rough  earth  beneath  a  hemlock, 
twisting  from  side  to  side  with  pain  of  loneliness  and  re 
morse  and  longing  for  she  knew  not  what.  Madge  did 
not  know  even  then  that  she  loved  Arthur  Burton;  but 
she  knew  in  that  instant  that  she  had  forgiven  him;  that 
rancor  had  made  a  last,  losing  fight,  and  had  given  place 
forever  to  something  new  and  different.  She  had  been  a 
fool  to  waste  the  time  in  a  silent  quarrel.  How  many 
days  had  been  suffered  to  go  by  empty !  She  had  seen  him, 
she  had  heard  him  speak,  she  had  known  that  he  was 
sleeping  under  the  same  roof,  but  she  had  not  held  her 
cup  out  for  the  shimmering  elixir;  she  had  stinted  the 

77 


LOST    VALLEY 

secret  reservoirs  of  her  heart,  in  spite  of  the  drought  to 
come.  It  was  too  late  now  to  go  to  him,  over  on  Round- 
top;  but  she  could  perhaps  meet  him  before  he  reached 
the  farm.  There  were  the  hens  to  feed  .  .  .  well,  if  she 
wasn't  there,  her  uncle  and  Jake  Leffingwell  would  have 
to  do  it.  Another  stage  had  been  definitely  marked. 

Madge  Lockerby  halted  by  the  bridge.  Arthur  Burton 
was  striding  down  the  last  stretch  of  the  Roundtop  road. 
He  was  hung  all  over  like  a  peddler  with  his  paraphernalia. 
Madge,  beautifully  flushed  with  speed,  held  out  a  hand. 

"Give  me  something  to  carry,"  she  said,  softly. 

Arthur  had  known  that  he  was  being  quarreled  with, 
of  course;  and,  after  his  first  remorse  and  annoyance,  had 
come  to  feel  that  it  was  better  so.  A  few  letters  from 
Juanita  had  reminded  him  afresh  that  all  women  were 
alike,  and  that  to  insult  them  was  not  necessarily  to  abate 
their  interest  in  one.  Madge  Lockerby  was  too  handsome, 
anyhow:  if  she  had  continued  to  be  friends  with  him,  he 
must  have  painted  her,  and  preserved  her  beauty  too 
vividly  in  his  memory.  He  did  not  want  any  country 
flirtation,  any  stupid  rural  intrigue.  It  was  better  that 
she  should  sulk:  he  had  been  near  to  pitying  her  too 
much.  When  you  pitied  them  too  much,  you  kissed 
them.  In  his  fresh  disgust  with  the  Breen  woman  and 
all  she  stood  for,  he  had  never  wanted  so  little  to  kiss 
anyone.  Kisses  had  a  way  of  multiplying. 

So  that  Burton  had  been  well  content,  after  his  first 
sulks  had  passed,  off.  Now  he  had  not  many  days  more  to 
stay  in  Andrew  Lockerby 's  house;  by  the  end  of  the  week 
he  could  go — and  he  would  have  something  to  show  John 
Lawrence.  The  withdrawal  of  Madge  from  his  leisure 
hours  had  flung  him  upon  the  austerer  breast  of  Nature. 
His  eye  had  fed  delicately,  amply,  on  beauty;  it  had  wooed 
Lost  Valley  like  a  lover,  and  like  a  woman  the  Valley 
had  surrendered  itself  to  his  eye,  keeping  back  no  secret 
78 


LOST  VALLEY 

phase,  no  private  loveliness.  He  had  roamed,  and  ex 
plored,  and  taken  his  ease  in  desolate  "lots,"  by  shaded 
pools,  in  odorous  clean  coverts.  He  had  shared  their 
pastures  with  the  cows;  he  had  climbed  to  the  rough 
summit  of  Roundtop,  where  from  a  little  clearing  on  the 
farther  side  he  could  look  out  distantly  over  the  tiny 
spread  roofs  of  Siloam  and  follow  the  slender  track  of  the 
railway  (shining  here  and  there  as  the  sun  touched  it)  to 
where  it  curved  inward  again  for  the  plunge  down  to 
Bartlett's  Mills.  This  intimacy  with  the  Valley  had  bred 
in  him  a  great  respect  for  it.  John  Lawrence  had  been 
right:  it  was  one  of  the  perfect  crannies  of  the  planet. 
And  his  relation  to  it  had  no  human  awkwardness.  Nat 
ural  beauty,  wherever  you  found  it,  was  of  the  center: 
rock,  hill,  and  tree  could  not  take  on  a  provincial  taint. 
Madge  Lockerby  had  almost  slipped  his  memory  during 
those  single-hearted  days  of  search  and  achievement. 

Yet  Arthur  Burton  was  of  a  very  human  paste,  by  no 
means  the  fellow  of  rock  and  tree.  When  he  saw  Madge 
waiting  for  him,  he  felt  the  old  stir  of  pity,  the  little  sting 
of  remorse.  His  contempt  softened  into  a  feeling  that  she 
was  too  negligible  and  weak  a  thing  to  hurt.  If  she 
wanted  to  be  friends,  it  meant  that  she  had  suffered  in 
estrangement.  It  was  not  for  him — heir  to  a  normal  en 
vironment — to  stand  on  his  dignity,  or  prolong  any  absurd 
pain  of  hers. 

"All  right.  Thank  you."  He  handed  over  his  folding 
easel. 

They  fell  into  step,  curiously  unembarrassed — Madge 
because  the  happiness  of  being  with  him  once  more  in 
comrade  fashion  submerged  other  cerebration;  Burton 
because  he  felt  that  on  his  heights  of  normality  he  could 
not  really  be  hurt  by  anything  that  struck  up  feebly  from 
so  far  below.  She  was  like  a  child  or  a  dumb  animal. 
How  could  he  have  forgotten  himself  so  far  as  to  be  peevish 

79 


LOST  VALLEY 

with  her?  You  quarreled  with  your  friends;  you  didn't 
quarrel  with  Granny  Lockerby's  grandchild,  Andrew 
Lockerby's  niece. 

"I've  done  a  lot  of  sketching,  these  last  days — in  the 
intervals.  Couldn't  help  it,  there  is  so  much  beauty  here. 
John  Lawrence  didn't  order  it  all,  you  know!  I  wonder 
if  you'd  care  to  see  any  of  them?  I  don't  know  how  pas 
sionately  you  feel  about  the  place,  but  there's  really 
rather  a  good  thing  I  knocked  off  the  other  day — one  of 
those  divine  half  hours  when  nothing  goes  wrong — up 
behind  the  Finches'  place  ...  of  Roundtop  where  it  seems 
to  rise  so  suddenly  because  of  its  great  fling  forward  just 
there — you  know.  I  think  Mr.  Lawrence  might  like  it, 
but  he  sha'n't  have  it;  not  if  you'd  care  for  it." 

"Do  you  mean  give  it  to  me?" 

"I  do.    But  not  to  sell,  mind  you.    To  keep." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Burton,  I  wouldn't  dream  of  selling  it,"  she 
reproached  him.  "Who'd  I  sell  it  to,  anyway?  And 
besides,  I'm  very  thankful  to  you.  I'd  love  to  have  it. 
It's  good  of  you  to  think  of  it.  I'll  keep  it  always."  She 
stammered  among  her  attempts  at  thanks. 

"  If  you  like  it,  it's  yours.  It's  the  best  of  the  sketches. 
Sometimes  a  thing  like  that  helps  to  remind  one  of  beauty 
that  the  eye  forgets.  There's  no  doubt,  seeing  a  thing 
every  day  can  make  one  forget."  He  spoke  half  to  him 
self,  explaining  his  impulse  to  gild  her  prison. 

"There's  another  thing  I'd  like  to  ask  you,"  he  said, 
slowly.  "It  is  a  great  favor,  and  I  shall  understand  if 
you  refuse.  I  suppose  you  can't  quite  realize  how,  with 
people  like  me,  there  is  always  the  desperate  desire  to  help 
out  memory  by  setting  things  down.  And  everything, 
you  know — practically — is  interesting  to  the  painter's 
eye.  That's  why  we  go  through  life  tantalized.  Years 
after,  one  little  sketch  will  bring  the  whole  thing  back; 
but  if  there's  no  little  sketch — no  hope !  So  it's  just  second 
80 


LOST  VALLEY 

nature  to  jot  down  anything,  lest  we  lose  it — ugly  or  beau 
tiful,  big  or  little.  No  one  could  understand  except  a 
painter.  But  it's  true. . . .  Your  sister  has  a  very  beautiful 
face.  Would  you  let  me  sketch  her — to  keep,  myself,  I 
mean?" 

Madge  flushed  again.     She  shifted  her  light   burden,1 
stopped,  and  kicked  idly  at  a  pebble.    They  were  within 
sight  and  reach  of  home  now.    Her  stopping  was  instinc-  - 
tive,  to  gam  time  to  deal  with  this  request.    Finally  she 
lifted  her  troubled  eyes  to  him.    "Just  what  do  you  want 
it  for?" 

Arthur  bit  his  lip.  He  must  go  very  carefully.  "I'll 
tell  you,  quite  honestly,"  he  said  at  last.  He  leaned  on 
a  stone  wall  beside  the  road,  dropped  his  burdens  care 
fully,  and  stood  with  folded  arms.  "Lola  is  very  lovely 
now.  It  would  take  too  long  to  tell  you  why  her  loveli 
ness  is  so  interesting — for  one  thing,  because  she  is  a  type 
that  early  Italian  painters  used  a  great  deal,  for  saints 
and  madonnas.  One  doesn't  find  it  often,  in  America." 
He,  too,  fell  to  kicking  a  stone.  He  had  every  desire  to 
be  honest,  yet  how  far  could  he  go?  "I  know  I  can 
speak  quite  frankly  to  you  about  Lola  .  .  .  she  won't  be 
so  lovely,  in  five  years,  because  her  face  will  pay,  in  line 
and  modeling,  for  the  misfortunes  of  her  mind.  But  just 
now,  she's  like  nothing  I've  ever  seen.  Would  you  let  me 
do  a  little  sketch  of  her?"  No,  he  could  not  tell  her  the 
whole  reason  of  his  desire;  he  would  have  to  be  verbally 
fair,  and  let  it  go  at  that.  It  was  for  her  beauty  . . .  chiefly. 
At  least,  if  she  hadn't  been  beautiful,  he  wouldn't  have 
wanted  to  sketch  her.  "I'll  show  it  to  you  when  it's 
finished,  and  if  you  don't  want  me  to  have  it,  I'll  tear  it 
up  before  your  eyes." 

He  turned  to  her  then  and  smiled.  Perhaps  it  wasn't 
fan* — the  dice  were  loaded;  yet  technically  he  was  sub 
mitting  to  her  decision.  To  his  surprise,  her  answer  did 

81 


LOST  VALLEY 

not  come  at  once.  He  had  thought  she  would  like  the 
idea  when  first  presented — with  the  stress  he  had  given 
it.  But  these  two  were  not  destined  to  deal  quite  honestly 
with  each  other  .  .  .  there  were  too  many  zones  of  differ 
ence.  No  vocabulary  would  run  to  adequate  translation. 

She  didn't  like  it,  then?  He  wondered;  shrugged  his 
trim  shoulders;  surrendered.  "Not  one  stroke  will  I 
make  on  paper,  if  you  don't  want  it.  I  won't  even  try, 
if  you  dislike  it.  Of  course  not.  We  won't  talk  about  it." 

But  Madge  Lockerby  had  fought  her  mysterious  battle. 
"Of  course  you  must,"  she  said.  "I'll  keep  Lola  amused 
while  you  do  it.  I'm  glad  to  have  you  sketch  her.  You 
mustn't  think  anything  else,  because  'tisn't  true."  Head 
up,  she  delivered  her  words  with  a  martial  air. 

Had  she  an  inkling  of  what  he  meant,  and  had  she  come 
over  to  take  his  point  of  view?  But  it  was  no  use  to 
wonder.  Perhaps  the  fate  of  the  sketch  would  tell.  Well : 
he  would  do  his  best;  and  if  he  succeeded  in  fulfilling  his 
whole  complex  purpose,  then  indeed  Madge  Lockerby, 
for  all  the  blindness  of  her  untrained  eye,  would  have  a 
fair  chance  to  declare  herself.  If  she  didn't  like  it,  he  would 
tear  it  up.  Wasn't  that  square  enough,  after  all?  No  one 
who  could  not  see  had  a  right  to  care. 

Burton  showed  his  little  pile  of  sketches  to  Madge  that 
evening,  by  the  light  of  two  lamps.  Andrew  Lockerby 
went  early  to  bed,  stumping  up  the  stairs  with  a  gruff 
good  night.  He  turned  and  looked  at  them  before  he 
mounted,  searching  their  averted  faces  with  a  steady  eye. 
He  had  thought,  once,  that  perhaps  they  were  getting  too 
thick.  He  would  trust  Madge  as  far  as  he'd  trust  any  girl, 
but  who  could  blame  her  if  she  fell  for  young  Burton? 
If  she  fell  in  love  with  him,  it  would  be  natural  enough, 
but  he,  Andrew,  would  be  sorry.  Not  that  he  didn't 
think  Madge  could  take  care  of  herself,  but — well,  he'd 
hate  to  have  her  pine.  The  girl  had  enough  trouble,  as 
82 


LOST  VALLEY 

it  was.  The  last  fortnight,  however,  his  hazy  fears  had 
been  expelled.  As  far  as  he  could  see,  they  didn't  care  a 
brass  button  for  each  other.  Let  her  look  at  his  truck  if 
she  wanted  to.  She  didn't  get  much  fun  out  of  life. 

The  crude  chaperon  grunted  and  mounted  the  stairs 
in  his  stocking  feet,  shutting  the  door  behind  him.  He 
didn't  want  to  be  kept  awake  by  their  chitter-chatter. 

There  was  not  much  chitter-chatter  at  first.  Madge 
felt  subtly  that  she  was  on  trial.  These  things  were  his 
life:  his  mind.  She  ached  with  desire  not  to  fall  short. 
Suppose  she  didn't  see  any  sense  in  them,  suppose  she 
couldn't  link  her  vision  to  his  hi  any  way.  He  would 
think  her  an  idiot.  So  she  went  warily,  her  intelligence 
telling  her  that  she  must  not  just  foolishly  exclaim.  And 
Arthur,  won  again,  in  his  facile  fashion,  by  her  proximity, 
her  biddableness,  her  beauty,  was  gentle  with  her,  led 
her  on,  explained,  pointed  out  what  he  had  been  "up  to" 
or  "after,"  where  he  thought  he  had  "pulled  it  off."  She 
had  the  luck  to  like  best  what  he  liked — and  she  honestly 
thought  she  did.  Her  woman's  wisdom,  pliant  and  in 
tuitive,  helped  her  to  divine,  from  his  own  expression,  his 
favorites;  and  the  instant  she  perceived  a  tacit  prefer 
ence,  her  judgment  leaped  to  its  decision.  It  was  an  in 
nocent  game,  for  she  did  not  know  she  was  playing  it. 
Mother  Eve,  indeed,  was  playing  it  for  her.  And  because 
her  intelligence,  though  untrained,  was  of  fine  gram,  she  had 
the  wit  to  be  silent  sometimes,  and  sometimes  to  shake  her 
head  and  admit  defeat.  She  listened  to  him — not  pa 
tiently,  not  cunningly,  but  as  one  listens  when  the  whole 
heart  hangs  on  the  beloved  voice,  when  every  syllable  is 
a  soothing  miracle — as  one  listens  when  one  first  loves. 
The  whole  rich  force  of  Madge  Lockerby's  nature  was 
back  of  that  tense  luxurious  listening.  She  was  begin 
ning,  a  little,  to  see  how  it  was  with  her;  and  before  the 
night  was  over  she  was  destined  to  see  wholly. 

83 


LOST  VALLEY 

No  man  of  Arthur  Burton's  temperament  could  be 
unmoved  by  the  atmosphere  Madge's  devotion  was 
creating.  The  big  homely  room  stretched  away  in  de 
licious  shadow  and  silence;  the  focused  lamp  rays  made 
of  his  work  a  central  brilliance  from  which  nothing  in  the 
context  detracted.  His  speech  flowed  out  from  him  in 
that  golden  light,  and  came  back  reinforced  by  the  sym 
pathetic  stillness,  by  the  creature  beside  him  who  was  all 
for  him,  all  his,  a  mere  human  heightening  of  his  own 
fervor.  He  forgot  Madge  Lockerby;  yet  he  was  richly, 
almost  sensuously,  aware  of  how  she  wrapped  him  about 
with  worship.  Her  words,  when  they  came,  did  not  jar. 
She  was  not  quite  a  person  to  him  just  then;  but  she  was, 
even  more  dangerously  and  vividly,  a  presence.  Her 
figure,  in  a  faded  pink  dress,  bent  over  his  sketches,  was 
not  wholly  troublous:  it  was  only  perhaps  too  quietly 
satisfying,  too  much  an  integral  part  of  a  moment  perfect 
in  its  way. 

Madge  began  at  last  to  tremble  in  her  golden  dream. 
The  warning  had  sounded,  for  her,  that  afternoon.  She 
could  not  have  felt  as  she  had  felt,  standing  at  rest  in 
sight  of  the  farm,  unless  she  cared  too  much,  personally. 
Up  to  that  moment,  she  had  not  known;  and  she  had 
tried  to  treat  the  suspicion,  when  it  came,  as  something 
false.  She  had  only  partially  succeeded.  She  was  afraid 
of  herself  now.  .  .  .  Like  one  in  midnight  darkness,  unable 
to  see  his  steps,  she  was  aware  that  the  path  was  changing. 
It  had  been  rough,  or  it  had  been  smooth,  but  it  had  been 
fairly  level.  Now  every  muscle  warned  her  of  the  steep 
downward  incline,  and  she  held  back  in  vain  on  the  slope. 

Finally  he  pushed  over  the  Roundtop  sketch  to  her. 
"And  this,  as  I  said,  is  for  you — if  you  want  it." 

"Oh,  I  do,  I  do."     She  put  out  her  hand  for  it,  her 
very  tenseness  making  her  awkward.    It  was  swept  to  the 
floor. 
84 


LOST  VALLEY 

Arthur  retrieved  it  and  gave  it  to  her.  Her  shaking, 
violent  hand  received  it.  She  strove  for  calm,  fixing  her 
eyes  on  the  sketch. 

"Yes,  it's  like  that,"  Madge  forced  herself  to  say  at 
last.  "I'll  frame  this,  and  hang  it  up  ...  and  then  I  need 
never  look  at  the  Valley  again.  I'll  look  at  this." 

"Ah,  you  sha'n't  have  it,  if  you  are  going  to  shut  your 
eyes  to  my  Valley."  It  was  his  Valley  now,  because  he 
had  striven  with  its  beauty  and  prevailed. 

Madge  ignored  the  speech.  "Thank  you,  Mr.  Burton. 
And  thank  you  for  showing  me  the  others." 

He  handed  her  one  of  the  lamps.  "I'll  sit  up  a  bit 
longer  and  have  a  pipe,  I  think.  But  I  won't  make  any 
noise.  Good  night." 

He  nodded,  and  closed  the  staircase  door  after  her. 

Arthur  smoked  his  pipe,  listening  to  the  light  noises 
above  as  Madge  stepped  about  her  room.  Finally,  in  the 
silence,  he  grew  very  sleepy.  His  beating  blood  gave  him 
respite.  Gathering  his  sketches  under  one  arm,  he  lifted 
the  other  lamp,  and  made  off  to  his  own  room.  Presently 
the  household  slept — even  Madge  Lockerby,  who  had  ex 
pected  a  sleepless  night.  If  youth  really  kept  its  ap 
pointed  vigils,  this  would  be  a  sad  world! 

Near  midnight,  the  quiet  of  the  dark  living  room  was 
vaguely  stirred.  Within  the  shadows  something  moved 
softly,  strangely;  a  mere  displacing  breath  that  marred 
the  stillness  fitfully.  There  was  no  watcher  to  take  note. 
Had  there  been  one,  he  would  have  been  perplexed,  so 
faintly  would  his  senses  have  been  smitten.  He  might 
have  thought  the  night  was  playing  tricks  on  eye  and  ear. 
But  soon  another  sense  would  have  been  assailed,  and  the 
disturbance  that  he  could  not  account  for  would  have  been 
expressed  in  the  acrid  signal  of  smoke.  Granny  had 
found  the  matches. 

Arthur  Burton  was  the  first  to  respond  to  that  signal. 

85 


LOST  VALLEY 

He  had  not  yet  reached  the  depths  of  sleep,  and  the  smoke, 
pouring  through  the  crevices  of  his  loose-hung  door, 
managed  to  get  its  warning  to  him.  Bewildered  yet  alert, 
he  jumped  into  shirt,  trousers,  and  slippers,  and  entered 
the  living  room.  The  air  was  thick  and  painful  to  breathe, 
but  there  was  no  mass  of  flame.  The  tablecloth  had 
caught,  and  some  of  the  meager  chair  coverings.  The  fire 
was  baffled  by  the  huge  brick  oven,  and  the  lack  of  up 
holstery,  the  absence  of  inflammable  luxuries.  It  set  to 
work  on  the  wooden  walls  and  floors,  charring  the  hard 
substance  with  a  certain  patience.  When  the  tablecloth 
flared  in  one  burst,  Arthur  saw  Granny,  frightened  now 
and  dancing  crazily  about.  He  paid  no  attention  to  her, 
but  leaped  to  the  staircase. 

Time  is  betrayed  by  putting  such  breathless,  accelerated 
events  into  words.  It  is  hard  to  tell  just  how  much  time 
the  fire  had  had  before  Burton  met  the  others  on  the  land 
ing  above.  Madge  had  been  awakened  by  his  quick 
rushes  below,  his  exclamations;  Andrew  Lockerby  by 
Lola's  scream  as  Madge  tore  at  her  bedclothes. 

Such  moments  of  unreasoned  action  are  revealing,  even 
to  oneself.  Andrew  Lockerby  limped  at  top  speed  down 
the  staircase  to  find  his  mother  and  carry  her  outside  the 
house. 

"We  can  save  it  if  we  get  water,"  panted  Arthur.  "It 
hasn't  got  much  start  yet.  Give  me  Lola.  I'll  carry  her." 

He  snatched  at  the  child  whom  Madge  was  trying  to 
support,  lead,  and  comfort,  all  at  once. 

"No!"  Even  in  that  confused  and  terrifying  moment, 
he  could  be  astonished  by  the  harshness  of  her  voice. 

Arthur  looked  back.  A  little  procession  of  sparks  was 
working  its  way  along  the  baseboard  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs.  "She's  got  to  be  carried,  and  she's  too  heavy  for 
you.  Give  her  to  me,  and  for  God's  sake  get  water — 
from  anywhere.  Isn't  there  a  pump  in  the  kitchen?" 
86 


LOST  VALLEY 

He  wrestled  with  her  for  Lola,  who  was  moaning  with 
excitement  and  terror. 

"Get  the  water  yourself.    Help  Uncle.    I'll  see  to  her." 

"We  can't  waste  time  here  quarreling.  It's  got  to  the 
bottom  stair.  Is  there  water  in  your  room?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  get  it  and  pour  it  over  the  stairs.  I  may  have  to 
jump,  as  it  is." 

"You  get  it.  I'll  be  helping  her  down."  There  might 
have  been  bitter  hatred  between  them,  so  violently  did 
they  speak  to  each  other. 

"You  fool!  You  wicked  little  fool!"  Arthur  leaped 
past  Madge,  found  the  broken  china  pitcher  on  her  wash- 
stand,  and  flung  the  mass  of  water  on  the  bottom  stair. 
It  sizzled,  and  quenched  the  sparks.  Andrew  Lockerby's 
voice  was  calling  to  them  for  help,  for  action.  The  tones 
fell  confusedly  upon  their  altercation.  Arthur  thrust 
the  pitcher  across  the  threshold  of  Madge's  room.  Then 
he  wrestled  quickly  with  Madge  Lockerby,  detaching  her 
arms  from  her  sister's  body,  gathering  the  child's  limpness 
into  his  own  grasp. 

"It's  all  right,  Lola!"  he  murmured.  "Hold  tight  to 
me,  and  we'll  go  outdoors."  Her  braided  hair  fell  across 
his  shoulders.  He  leaned  his  cheek  against  her  face  to 
keep  the  smoke  out  of  her  mouth  and  nostrils  while  he 
bore  her  across  the  crackling  planks  of  the  flooring  and 
out  into  the  cold  pure  air. 

Madge  watched  him  from  above,  never  stirring.  He 
relented  to  her  slightly,  then,  thinking  her  crazed  by  fear. 

Before  going  to  the  kitchen,  Andrew  Lockerby  had 
pulled  blankets  off  his  mother's  bed  to  wrap  her  in,  and 
she  lay,  a  shapeless,  cowed  huddle,  on  the  grass.  Had 
there  been  time,  Arthur  would  have  unwound  one  of  them 
for  Lola's  use.  That  slender  little  body  must  be  very 
cold,  and  the  dew  was  heavy. 

7  87 


LOST  VALLEY 

To  his  relief,  when  he  entered  the  house  again,  Madge^ 
had  descended  the  staircase.  She  appeared  to  be  going  to 
the  aid  of  her  uncle,  who  was  still  raucously  calling  from 
the  kitchen. 

"Go  out  and  look  after  Lola,"  Arthur  said  to  her 
sharply.  "Get  something  to  cover  her  with.  I'll  help 
your  uncle." 

She  moved  obediently,  but  stopped  an  instant.  "Your 
pictures!" 

"Damn  the  pictures!  Fetch  a  blanket,  a  coat,  some 
thing.  Do  you  want  Lola  to  die  of  cold?" 

She  pulled  an  old  coat  of  Andrew  Lockerby's  off  a  hook, 
and  disappeared,  sobbing  violently.  He  could  not  see  her 
face  through  the  thick  smoke,  pierced  only  by  will-o'-the- 
wisp  lights,  where  something  dryer  and  lighter  caught,  and 
flared  up  for  an  instant.  But  he  heard  the  sobs,  and  cursed 
hysterics.  All  tears  seemed  alike  to  him  in  that  hot 
confusion. 

Andrew  Lockerby  broke  through,  struggling  with  two 
filled  pails.  "Get  a  candle."  He  choked  on  the  words 
and  was  silent,  husbanding  his  breath  against  that  pestif 
erous  air. 

Arthur  returned  to  his  own  room  and  lighted  a  candle. 
He  could  hear  the  heavy  splash  of  water  falling  on  wooden 
surfaces.  He  seized  his  own  water  pitcher,  and  started; 
then  quickly,  but  deliberately,  set  it  down,  and  the 
candle,  too.  His  room,  though  full  of  smoke,  was  still 
quite  safe.  He  peered  out  through  the  open  window 
at  the  ground  below.  Then  he  lifted  his  two  paintings 
very  carefully,  and  very  carefully  lowered  them  to 
stand  on  the  grass  against  the  house  wall.  This  done, 
he  slammed  down  the  window  and  picked  up  his  pitcher 
and  his  candle. 

Arthur  Burton  never  knew  how  long  it  took  him  and 
Andrew  Lockerby  to  put  out  the  incipient  conflagration. 
88 


LOST  VALLEY 

He  did  not  look  at  his  watch  either  before  or  after  the 
event.  He  seemed  to  remember  hours  of  filling  pails, 
carrying  them,  emptying  them,  and  returning  for  more. 
Yet  when  Andrew  Lockerby  pronounced  the  place  safe, 
the  end  seemed  to  have  come  with  incredible  suddenness. 
By  common  consent,  the  men  had  refused  help  from 
Madge.  She  was  too  sorely  needed  outside  with  her  two 
dependents — to  prevent  Granny  from  running  into  the 
house,  to  keep  Lola  from  collapse.  When  Andrew  at  last 
herded  the  women  folk  into  the  living  room  again,  Arthur 
sank  down  in  a  charred  armchair,  exhausted,  to  take 
breath  for  what  would  next  be  asked  of  him.  He  noticed 
with  a  shock,  when  Madge  came  near  the  candle  flame, 
that  she  was  still  crying.  The  tears  ran  in  a  ceaseless 
stream  down  her  face.  Had  she  been  crying  all  this 
unknown,  indefinite  tune,  his  brain  wondered. 

Andrew  and  Madge  led  Granny  to  her  room,  where, 
exhausted  by  the  events  she  had  created,  she  went  un- 
protesting  to  bed.  Arthur  did  not  even  speak  to  Lola, 
whimpering  sleepily  in  her  chair.  He  was  too  tired  to  do 
anything  except  as  Andrew  Lockerby  told  him.  He  waited 
for  an  order  to  rouse  him. 

"Guess  you  better  make  us  some  coffee,  Madge,"  her 
uncle  said,  as  they  came  out  from  Granny's  room.  "We'll 
heat  the  soapstone  for  mother,  too." 

The  two  passed  out  into  the  kitchen.  Still,  for  a  few 
minutes,  Arthur  tarried.  It  had  been  a  mistake,  he 
thought  wearily,  to  sit  down.  He  could  have  gone  on  all 
night  if  he  hadn't  treacherously  stopped  to  rest.  Until 
he  was  called,  he  did  not  stir.  Then  he  walked  into  the 
kitchen  and  sat  on  a  stool  while  Madge  poured  him  coffee. 
Her  tears  had  stopped  flowing  now,  and  somehow  that 
was  an  immense  relief  to  his  nerves. 

Andrew  Lockerby  spoke  over  his  cup.  "I  guess,  if  it 
hadn't  'a'  been  for  you,  Mr.  Burton,  there  wouldn't  V 

89 


LOST  VALLEY 

been  much  left  in  the  morning.  It  was  having  all  that 
Water  so  quick  that  did  it." 

"If  I  hadn't  been  here,  your  niece  would  have  helped 
you." 

"She  couldn't  have  carried  what  you  did.  And  I'd 
have  had  to  stop  and  look  after  the  girls  if  you  hadn't 
'a'  done  it.  No.  I  guess  it's  thanks  to  you." 

His  painful  task  of  courtesy  over,  Andrew  fell  silent. 

"Oh,  it's  all  my  fault  in  the  first  place,  I'm  afraid," 
Arthur  went  on  wearily.  "I  must  have  left  the  matches 
out  there  when  I  went  to  bed." 

Andrew  Lockerby's  pride  longed  to  accept  this,  but 
something  truer  than  his  pride  forbade. 

"There'd  have  been  a  time,  prob'ly,  when  somebody 'd 
left  'em  round.  It's  a  wonder  it  'ain't  happened  before." 

Tired  as  he  was,  Arthur  could  note  and  appreciate  the 
delicacy  with  which  Andrew  Lockerby  had  disposed  of  the 
event.  But  his  weariness  forbade  his  finding  an  adequate 
reply.  A  mere  lie  was  the  best  he  could  do. 

"I'm  glad  I  was  here." 

Then  he  rose  to  go  to  his  own  room.  As  he  turned  to 
pull  the  door  to,  he  saw  Madge  drift  to  a  stop  beside  him 
on  her  way  upstairs. 

"I'm  sorry.  I'm  sorry."  With  that  unexplained, 
broken  murmur  she  passed  on. 

Apologizing  for  hysterics  and  general  bad  behavior  on 
the  staircase,  he  supposed.  As  if  it  mattered,  now  that 
everything  was  safe.  Women  were  always  liable  to  hys 
teria,  though  he  wouldn't  have  expected  it  from  the  over- 
calm,  almost  overstrong  Madge  Lockerby.  He  rescued 
his  pictures  from  the  dew,  and  fell  into  bed,  to  sleep  it  all 
off. 

Madge  Lockerby,  weary  to  the  bone,  sought  sleep  also, 
but  in  vain.  Exhaustion  penetrated  every  cranny  of  her 
frame,  but  there  was  one  sentient  point — the  brain — 
90 


LOST  VALLEY 

which  refused  to  be  lulled.  Had  she  known  that  Arthur 
Burton  was  covering  her  conduct  with  the  general  pretext 
of  hysteria,  she  might  have  slept — though  I  think  not. 
Arthur's  ignorance  of  the  truth  would  have  been  mere 
balm;  and  only  an  anodyne  would  have  served.  Her 
revelation  had  completed  itself  within  a  few  hours.  First 
the  shock,  that  afternoon,  of  knowing  that  she  did  not 
want  him  to  study  and  portray  Lola's  beauty.  This  un 
willingness  she  had  tried  to  find  dignified  reasons  for; 
and  as  soon  as  she  knew  that  she  could  not,  she  had 
capitulated.  Perhaps  all  might  have  gone  well :  she  might 
have  conquered  her  unworthy  impulse,  had  she  been  given 
time.  She  had  herself  well  in  hand  while  they  looked  at 
his  work  in  the  lamplight.  Then  came  the  hour  of  terror, 
when  instinct  had  its  way;  and  the  memory  of  herself 
fighting  like  a  beast  to  keep  him  from  touching  her  sister, 
of  the  marvelous  and  unspeakable  jealousy  that  had 
moved  her — the  woman  struggling  to  keep  the  man  from 
the  other  female  creature  he  admired — this  memory  of 
physical  resentment,  of  hateful  collision  of  wills  and  bodies, 
drenched  her  with  crimson,  lying  there  alone,  on  her  back, 
in  her  dark  little  room.  Jealous  of  Lola!  It  was  terrible, 
if  he  realized;  just  as  terrible  if  he  did  not.  For  he  would 
presently  be  gone,  but  she  would  be  left  alone  with  her 
shame.  Even  if  in  time  the  shame  should  wear  off,  the 
sorrow  of  a  vain  love  never  would.  So  she  descended, 
circling  path  by  circling  path,  the  narrowing  spiral  of  her 
Inferno,  and  no  sleep  came  to  bless  her  eyelids. 


Book  II 
THE  OTHER  HALF  OF  TADDEO 

CHAPTER  ONE 

WINTER,  that  year,  came  early  and  stayed  late; 
so  that  Madge  Lockerby,  ever  after,  thought  of 
snow  as  peculiarly  her  enemy.  The  first  storm  broke 
hard  upon  Arthur  Burton's  departure;  and  Madge  woke 
out  of  her  first  numbness  to  a  whitened  world.  Winter, 
always  a  season  of  increased  deprivation  to  Valley  dwell 
ers,  isolated  them  more  narrowly;  and  the  snow,  deepening 
drift  on  deepening  drift,  seemed  to  her  symbolic  of  her 
bondage  and  burial.  Untraveled  as  she  was,  she  in 
stinctively  thought  of  other  places  as  sunnier  and  safer; 
as  if  this  white  curse  were  for  them  and  them  only.  The 
weather  and  the  great  drifts  bound  her  more  closely  to 
the  house  and,  in  the  house,  to  the  living  room  and 
kitchen.  Sojourns  in  the  attic  were  not  to  be  thought  of; 
and  to  do  the  chores  in  barns  and  henhouse  was  a  Spartan 
and  shivering  adventure.  There  was  no  escape  to  the 
high  pastures  with  their  relief  of  perspective;  and  for  four 
months  she  did  not  see  Siloam. 

On  the  history  of  that  winter  there  is  no  need  to  dwell  in 
detail.  Madge  Lockerby's  was  a  strong  spirit,  and  her 
strength  tortured  yet  sustained  her.  She  was  crude  and 
fine  by  turns;  she  thought  with  great  simplicity,  but  felt 
in  complex  ways.  Put  it  down  to  her  credit  that  she  did 
not  suffer  herself  to  become  morbid;  so  far  as  she  could, 


LOST  VALLEY 

she  took  her  suffering  objectively,  and  sought  little 
remedies  for  the  mind  as  the  ignorant  seek  herbs  and 
simples  for  their  bodily  ills.  She  folk-doctored  herself, 
and  some  of  her  doctoring  worked.  She  soon  saw  that  she 
could  not  afford  to  sit  with  her  uncle  during  the  long 
evenings,  thinking  of  Arthur  Burton  and  knowing  that  he 
was  gone  forever.  The  healthy  instinct  for  self-preser 
vation  was  strong  in  her,  and  to  think  of  him  was  to  shake 
with  fever.  To  sew  until  her  fingers  ached  was  all  very 
well,  and  to  plan  with  her  uncle  for  the  new  mowing 
machine;  to  tire  herself  out  with  shoveling,  like  a  man. 
But  in  winter  there  was  always  a  residuum  of  slack  time, 
and  she  feared  idleness.  She  got  down  her  mother's  books 
from  the  attic,  and  taught  herself  to  read  simple  French 
while  her  uncle  dozed  over  his  farm  catalogues.  At  the 
new  year  she  had  a  card  from  Arthur  Burton.  For  a 
week  it  was  her  idol:  she  trembled  hourly  for  fear  some 
accident  should  soil  or  crumple  it.  At  last  she  burned  it 
with  her  own  hands,  and  felt  relief  in  the  midst  of  her 
tears. 

As  the  days  grew  longer  and  the  drifts  began  almost 
imperceptibly  to  subside,  she  made  plans  for  spending 
the  money  which  her  uncle  had  reluctantly  but  loyally 
handed  to  her.  She  would  get  Miss  Martin  to  send  to 
Boston  for  some  French  books  for  her  and  a  real  dictionary. 
She  did  not  know  what  books,  but  Miss  Martin  would. 
And  she  would  buy  pink  sateen  for  a  lining  to  the  quilt 
which  was  to  be  made  out  of  Lola's  multitudinous  patches. 
Ma'am  Leffingweil  would  make  it  up  for  them,  and  it 
should  be  spread  on  Lola's  own  bed,  where — she  hoped — 
it  would  arouse  pride  in  Lola's  stunted  soul,  and  teach  her 
many  things.  Her  jealousy  of  Lola  had  burned  itself  out 
on  that  one  wild  night  and  had  never  returned  after 
Arthur's  departure.  Gone,  he  was  almost  a  myth  to  her; 
she  could  hardly  believe  now  that  she  had  ever,  in  one 

93 


LOST  VALLEY 

shameful  moment,  believed  him  attracted  to  the  younger 
girl.  His  sketch  of  Roundtop  she  had  packed  away  in 
the  tray  of  her  mother's  trunk — as  with  the  card,  fearing 
fetishism.  For  Madge  Lockerby,  though  she  had  never 
heard  of  fetish,  was  aware  by  instinct  of  its  dark  ways. 

Spring  came  at  last,  releasing  Lost  Valley — triumphing 
slowly,  as  always  in  the  north,  but  none  the  less  surely. 
There  was  more  work  now,  but  the  saving  half  hours  of 
escape  to  Barker's  Hill  returned  to  bless  the  shortened 
intervals.  The  healing  sun  did  his  part,  rewarding  her 
youth  for  its  long  struggle.  There  were  moments  when 
Madge  was  almost  happy  again;  when  the  air  and  the 
grass  and  the  leaves  rilled  her  with  a  wild  wonder  of  their 
own  and  made  her  forget  that  she  was  a  hopeless  lover. 
In  June  she  dared  the  glade  by  the  cider  mill  once  more, 
though  she  found  its  evocative  power  almost  too  strong. 
Her  healthy  mind  told  her,  however,  that  she  must  not 
cut  herself  off  from  places  that  reeked  of  their  old 
comradeship;  she  set  her  teeth  and  returned,  again  and 
again.  Presently  she  found  that  to  be  there  was  not  tor 
ture;  was,  in  a  curious  way,  peace.  There  she  had  always 
been  happy;  the  spot  had  no  memories  of  conflict;  there 
they  had  seemed  most  nearly  equal;  there  he  had  built 
up  for  her  the  fairy  world  in  which  she  still  saw  him  mov 
ing,  ever  more  distantly,  as  a  god.  There  she  could  re 
member  him  best  and  most  happily.  When  she  closed 
her  eyes,  the  remembered  blondness  of  his  hair  took  the 
unseen  light;  the  lines  of  the  face,  refined  by  memory  into 
exceeding  delicacy,  were  faintly  etched  upon  her  eyeballs. 
Her  closed  eyelids  fluttered  with  the  clearness  of  the 
vision.  Thus  she  shut  him  away  from  her  world  and  pos 
sessed  the  whole  look  of  him.  But  nowhere  else  could 
she  do  it  so  well.  She  was  glad  that  she  had  forbidden 
herself  to  shun  the  place.  And  one  delicious  afternoon 
when  Andrew  had  taken  Lola  to  Siloam  and  Ma'am 


LOST  VALLEY 

Leffingwell  had  come  to  sit  with  Granny,  Madge  carried 
Lizzie  Fessenden's  vase  to  the  glade  by  the  pool  and,  after 
making  a  niche  for  it  within  the  cider  mill,  filled  it  with 
lady's-slippers  and  maidenhair  ferns.  The  spot  became  a 
haunt  of  hers ;  not  a  shrine  so  much  as  a  place  of  her  own 
where  she  could  drift  among  memories.  There  could  be 
no  such  place  at  home,  but  during  the  summer  she  could 
be  locked  in  a  privacy  that  was  eloquent  of  the  happiest 
days  she  was  ever  like  to  know. 

July,  treading  heavily  on  the  lighter  footsteps  of  June, 
found  Madge  lapped  in  this  curious  peace.  "I  sha'n't 
ever  see  him  again,  and  I'd  be  foolish  to  think  he  remem 
bers  me,"  she  murmured  to  herself.  "But  he  did  like  me 
— down  here  by  the  brook,  anyway.  And  I'd  a  sight 
rather  think  of  him  and  his  talk  and  his  ways,  with  no 
one  to  bother,  than  be  looking  out  for  somebody  to  carry 
on  with,  like  some  girls."  More  than  that,  she  never 
said  to  herself.  The  rest — all  the  labyrinthine  rest — was 
silence. 

"Fourth  o*  July"  was  scarcely  a  holiday  in  the  Valley. 
Now  and  then  a  child  found  a  cheap  flag — some  fairing 
fetched  home  from  an  excursion — and  waved  it  about,  or 
blew  on  a  tin  horn;  but  even  this  display  was  rare.  Madge 
remembered  having  firecrackers  and  torpedoes  once  in 
her  childhood,  but  that  was  many  years  ago.  The  date 
slipped  by,  most  often,  unnoticed.  About  this  time  the 
bolder  spirits  planned  for  the  circus  at  Barker's  Creek. 
Lola  heard  of  the  circus  and  teased  to  go;  but  Andrew 
refused,  and  Madge  could  not  bear  to  part  with  any  of 
her  little  hoard  for  a  noisy,  dusty  day  among  the  tents. 
Like  as  not,  Lola  would  be  frightened  of  the  elephants  and 
lions;  and  if  Uncle  Andrew  wouldn't  take  them — he  said 
he  wouldn't — she'd  have  to  ask  a  neighbor.  She  wasn't 
going  to  be  "beholden."  Normally,  Madge  would  have 
been  eager,  herself,  for  the  circus.  But  her  withdrawn 

95 


LOST  VALLEY 

hours  in  the  secret  glade,  hard  by  the  little  niche  she  had 
made,  had  refined  and  sentimentalized  her  imaginings. 
She  was  amply  provided,  for  the  present,  with  her  dreams. 
She  did  not  feel  the  natural  urge  toward  the  excitement 
of  circus  day,  and  that  made  it  easier  for  her  to  steel  her 
self  against  Lola's  pleadings.  Yet  she  felt  remorse,  too — 
remorse  because  she  had  the  money  in  her  pocket,  and  the 
Leffingwells  would  have  taken  them  willingly  enough,  if 
she  had  indicated  a  desire. 

Circus  day  went  by,  and  though  Lola  soon  forgot,  it 
was  the  penalty  of  Madge's  temperament  that  she  her 
self  did  not.  She  blamed  herself.  .Lola  would  have  liked 
it  so !  Perhaps  it  would  have  given  Lola's  brain  something 
to  work  on;  perhaps  it  would  have  been  good  for  her. 
She  almost  wished  that  she  had  sacrificed  her  money, 
her  pride,  and  her  own  indifference.  Madge  was  not  far 
short  of  miserable  about  it.  "I'd  ought  to  have  done  it 
for  the  child,"  she  murmured  to  herself  remorsefully. 
The  thing  haunted  her.  How  could  she  ever  make  it  up 
to  Lola  before  next  summer?  And  next  summer,  like  as 
not,  there  wouldn't  be  any  money.  Madge  bore  a  double 
burden,  these  days,  of  maiden  passion  and  of  maternal  care. 

Then,  one  late  and  lovely  afternoon,  it  seemed  that  a 
miracle  ran  to  meet  her.  She  had  walked  up  the  road, 
idly  watching  for  the  R.  F.  D.  man,  who  might  be  expected 
to  bring  a  letter  about  the  belated  delivery  of  the  mow 
ing  machine.  It  lacked  half  an  hour  yet  to  his  usual  time, 
but  instead  of  going  home  she  leaned  against  the  Lefh'ng- 
wells'  fence  and  looked  across  at  the  forward  thrust  of 
Roundtop,  trying  to  take  pleasure  in  it  as  Arthur  Burton 
would  have  had  her  do.  She  smiled  a  little  to  think  how 
surprised  he  would  have  been  to  know  that  she  had  packed 
away  his  picture. 

Then  she  became  aware  of  a  limping  figure  that  issued 
from  a  little  thicket  beyond  the  Finch  place  and  moved, 
96 


LOST  VALLEY 

in  the  distance,  toward  her.  It  seemed  misshappen,  a 
queer  blot,  scarce  human.  She  narrowed  her  eyes.  It 
approached  very  slowly  along  the  dusty  road,  too  slowly 
for  her  to  decipher  it  soon.  It  must  be  human — no  animal 
moved  like  that.  Yes,  it  was  a  man:  she  could  see  the 
two  legs  moving.  A  peddler  with  a  pack,  perhaps.  .  .  . 
She  forgot  the  postman  as  she  waited.  Peddlers  never 
came  any  more;  if  they  did,  they  had  wagons  hung  over 
with  pots  and  brooms.  This  was  a  human  being  on 
foot  .  .  .  with  a  dog,  she  thought,  on  a  string.  Madge 
leaned  forward  with  parted  lips,  wishing  it  would  make 
haste  and  divulge  its  identity.  The  figure  moved  slowly. 
It  stopped  in  front  of  the  Finches'  yard.  Some  one  in 
side  threw  a  stone — she  saw  the  stone  skip  across  the 
road — and  the  man  started  on  convulsively,  shaking  a 
fist  in  the  direction  of  the  hidden  Finch  house. 

He  did  not  stop  at  the  Leffingwells' — there  was  a  dog 
there,  that  was  the  reason.  Indeed,  she  thought  she  heard 
a  faint  bark.  The  man — clearly  it  was  a  man,  with  a 
grotesque  burden — picked  up  his  own  animal  out  of  the 
dusty  road  and  set  it  on  his  shoulder.  Madge  waited, 
all  agog  for  the  full  revelation.  She  stepped  down  into 
the  road,  to  see  the  creature  better  as  he  drew  near. 

He  came  at  last  within  clear  view  at  fifty  yards.  A 
wandering  Italian  with  an  old-fashioned  hand  organ  and 
a  monkey !  She  had  not  guessed,  simply  because  it  was  so 
long  since  she  had  seen  one  in  the  Valley.  He  mustn't  go 
by  them.  Her  money  was  upstairs,  locked  into  her  own 
chest  of  drawers,  so  she  beckoned  to  the  man  and  made 
him  understand  that  she  wanted  him  to  stop  before  their 
door  and  play.  Giuseppe  was  glad  enough  to  do  so.  He 
had  been  cursing  this  inhospitable  and  moneyless  back 
water.  For  Giuseppe  had  troubles  of  his  own.  He  owned 
only  half  of  the  monkey,  and  to  buy  out  his  partner  would 
take  a  round  sum. 

97 


LOST  VALLEY 

Arresting  him  at  their  front  gate  with  a  gesture  and  a 
few  monosyllables,  Madge  ran  to  her  own  room  for  money. 
When  he  saw  her  emerge  from  the  house — not  before,  for 
he  was  a  skeptical  soul,  disillusioned  by  his  northern  ad 
venture — he  set  the  organ  down  on  its  one  leg  and  began 
to  grind  at  his  tunes.  The  monkey  leaped  to  the  ground 
and  essayed  its  melancholy  dance. 

Madge  gave  the  man  money,  then  called :  "  Lola !  Lola ! " 

No  answer. 

"You  stay,"  she  commanded  Giuseppe.  "I'll  go  call 
my  sister.  Then  I'll  pay  you  more.  See?" 

No  search  availed  to  discover  Lola  about  the  place. 
She  must  have  gone  with  her  uncle  to  fetch  home  the 
cows,  and  it  might  be  some  time  before  they  would  re 
turn.  She  couldn't  keep  the  man  there  forever,  yet  she 
couldn't  bear  to  have  Lola  miss  one  bar  of  the  atrocious 
music.  It  might  make  up  for  the  circus,  was  Madge's 
deepest  thought. 

Giuseppe  ground  on,  jerking  at  the  monkey  between- 
whiles.  He  was  quite  content  to  stay,  since  the  silver  in 
his  palm  was  the  first  money  he  had  received  that  day. 
Five  minutes  went  by,  ten,  and  still  the  girl  who  had 
paid  him  had  not  reappeared.  He  stopped  grinding, 
hauled  up  his  monkey,  and  waited,  staring  at  the  farm 
stead.  He  saw  no  sign  of  prosperity  there,  but  the  coins 
the  girl  had  given  him  were  real.  He  bit  them  carefully 
to  see. 

Madge  meanwhile  had  sped  to  the  farthest  pasture. 
She  was  so  afraid  the  Italian  would  go !  She  oughtn't  to 
have  paid  him,  perhaps.  Yet  if  she  hadn't  given  him 
something,  he  wouldn't  have  stayed  at  all,  probably. 
She  did  not  climb  all  the  way  to  meet  them,  but  stood 
panting  at  the  last  fence  and  called  to  Lola,  making  a 
trumpet  of  her  hands.  She  sank  down  to  rest  a  moment 
while  Lola  ran  down  the  stony  field  to  her,  but  when  the 
98 


LOST  VALLEY 

girl  reached  her,  Madge  was  up  and  off  like  an  arrow, 
with  Lola's  hand  folded  in  hers. 

"There's  something  pretty  down  at  home  for  you  to 
see.  I  came  to  get  you,"  she  panted  out  as  they  ran.  If 
only  the  Italian  wouldn't  have  gone! 

"What  is  it?"  Lola  gasped. 

Madge  pulled  up  on  the  lowest  slope  of  the  pasture 
lots.  "  Sister  didn't  mean  to  hurry  you  so.  Stop  a  minute. 
We'll  get  our  breath."  She  took  off  Lola's  sunbonnet  and 
smoothed  back  the  damp  golden  hair.  "There — now 
we'll  come." 

Madge  sighed  with  deep  relief  as  they  rounded  the 
house  wall.  Giuseppe  was  still  there. 

"Sit  on  the  step,  Lola,  and  listen."  The  child  obeyed. 
Her  consciousness  focused  slowly,  and  she  did  not  realize 
what  it  was  all  about.  She  stared  at  the  man,  without 
understanding  at  once  who  or  what  he  was. 

Madge  had  kept  the  rest  of  her  money  clutched  in  her 
hand  during  her  flight  to  the  upper  pasture  and  back. 
Now  she  approached  the  Italian  and  poured  the  little 
coins  into  his  palm.  Giuseppi  bowed  and  smiled,  and 
"The  Wearing  of  the  Green"  wheezed  forth  upon  the  air. 

Lola,  leaning  against  the  house  wall,  seemed  to  wonder 
still  about  the  music.  It  was  not  loud  enough  to  attack 
her  nerves,  and  the  unmelodious  drone  of  it  said  nothing 
to  her  untutored  ear.  But  presently  Madge,  watching 
her  anxiously  for  signs  of  delight — Madge,  on  whose  heart 
the  neglected  circus  was  a  heavy  burden — saw  the  girl's 
eyes  brighten.  Slowly  Lola  bent  forward,  stretched  out 
her  hands;  her  frame  quivered  eagerly.  She  had  become 
aware  of  the  monkey,  solemnly  doffing  its  cap  and  capering 
toward  her. 

Lola  moved  forward,  magnetized.  Never  in  her  short 
and  straitened  life  had  she  seen  anything  like  this:  not 
<a  cow,  a  horse,  a  pig,  a  dog,  nor  yet  a  person — something 


LOST  VALLEY 

divinely  attractive  and  strangely  sympathetic.  Madge 
saw  her  beatific  smile — the  smile  of  a  primitive  angel. 
The  monkey  responded  by  leaping  unexpectedly  to  Lola's 
shoulder.  Madge  ran  toward  her,  her  quick  instinct 
fearing  Lola's  fear.  But  Lola  stood  entranced  and  rigid, 
as  if  a  breath  would  startle  the  heavenly  visitant.  ''The 
Wearing  of  the  Green"  turned  to  "Marching  Through 
Georgia."  Giuseppe  pulled  at  the  rope  again,  and  the 
monkey  leaped  from  Lola's  shoulder  to  earth  in  a  clever 
somersault.  Lola  folded  her  arms  on  her  breast  and 
watched,  stooping  toward  the  monkey  in  an  ecstasy. 
Madge  had  not  been  so  happy  for  months  as  she  was  then, 
witnessing  Lola's  pleasure.  It  had  made  up  for  the  circus. 

Even  the  silver  coins  with  which  Madge  had  overpaid 
him  could  not  keep  the  Italian  there  forever.  When 
Andrew  Lockerby,  returning  with  the  cows,  disappeared 
into  the  barn,  after  shouting  for  Madge,  the  organ  grinder 
made  ready  to  depart.  He  had  marked  down  an  empty 
barn  across  from  the  Finch  place  where  he  could  spend 
the  night.  It  was  too  late  to  cross  the  pass  into  civiliza 
tion.  He  made  bold,  however,  to  ask  for  food  and  a  drink 
from  the  well.  Madge  gave  him  bread  and  cold  salt  pork, 
and  let  him  slake  his  thirst.  Then  the  man  took  the  organ 
on  his  back  once  more,  and  limped  away  up  the  road. 
The  monkey  crouched  on  the  organ,  doffed  its  cap  once 
more,  then  fell  to  a  somnolent  scratching.  Hand  in  hand, 
Madge  and  Lola  watched  them  go. 

"He's  making  into  that  old  barn  of  Finches'.  Probably 
going  to  spend  the  night  there.  Wasn't  the  monkey  cute, 
Lola?  Aren't  you  glad  I  fetched  you  down  from  the 
pasture?" 

"Yes,"  the  girl  answered.  The  look  of  rapture  had  not 
passed  from  her  face.  It  stayed  through  supper,  and  until 
Lola  was  tucked  into  her  bed.  She  had  the  air  of  one  who 
has  received  a  revelation,  a  secret  joy  that  flooded  her 
100 


LOST  VALLEY 

being.  Madge  had  looked  for  chatter,  but  even  without 
it,  was  elated.  It  must  be  good  for  Lola  to  be  taken  out  of 
herself  like  that. 

She  said  as  much  to  Andrew  Lockerby  when  they  were 
alone. 

"I  'ain't  seen  one  o'  them  round  here  for  years.  He 
must  'a'  got  here  by  mistake.  I  thought  something  was 
the  matter  when  you  come  running  up  to  the  pasture. 
I  don't  believe  anything  will  do  Lola  any  good  in  the  way 
you  mean,  Madge.  'S  far  as  I  can  see,  she's  no  different 
from  what  she  was  two-three  years  ago." 

"Oh,  but  she  is,  uncle!  She's  learned  her  patchwork 
so  she  does  it  really  good.  And  I  think  pretty  soon  she'll 
be  able  to  tell  time.  And  she  combs  her  own  hair  this 
summer — unless  there's  too  many  snarls.  Lola  is  better 
— and  if  she  could  have  things  to  take  her  mind,  and 
keep  her  waked  up,  I  believe  she'd  grow  cleverer  all  the 
time." 

Andrew  Lockerby  did  not  pursue  the  subject.  He  was 
occupied  in  computing  the  days  that  might  elapse  still 
before  the  arrival  of  his  mowing  machine.  He  wanted  it 
almost  with  the  impatience  of  youth.  It  still  seemed  in 
credible  to  him  that  he  should  acquire  it;  yet  he  felt  that 
if  he  did  not,  it  would  be  more  than  he  could  bear.  The 
delay  exacerbated  him,  and  he  brooded,  and  reverted  to 
his  grievance  like  a  child.  Many  blows  had  fallen  on  him 
in  his  hopeless  life;  but  that  would  stun  him  for  fair. 

"And  there  didn't  any  letter  come,"  he  said  finally — 
for  the  tenth  time  that  evening. 

"No.  The  organ  man  came  instead."  Madge  laughed. 
: Humph!  I'd  ruther  have  had  the  letter.  I'll  drive 
>ver  to  Siloam  to-morrow  early,  I  guess.  Maybe  Tom 

mner's  heard  something.  They  might  have  written  to 
dm,  'stead  of  me.  I'd  ought  to  have  had  the  machine  a 
full  fortnight  ago.  I'd  cal'lated  to  start  hayin'  by  the 

101 


LOST  VALLEY 

Fourth,  this  year,  I'll  get  myself  a  snack  and  go  after  the 
cows  %r£  milked^' 

Madge's  tenderness  suddenly  overflowed  to  include  her 
uncle — who  wanted  his  mowing  machine  as  much  as  Lola 
had  wanted  the  circus,  only  with  a  more  painful  tenacity. 

"Don't  you  do  it,  uncle.  If  you'll  get  your  breakfast, 
I'll  help  Jake  milk  the  cows  to-morrow.  Then  you  can  get 
back  early,  and  it  '11  save  you  time  later." 

"It  would  be  better  so.  You  women  folks  won't  mind 
gettin'  breakfast  a  little  later.  That's  a  good  idea,  Madge. 
I — I'm  much  obliged." 

Truly  it  was  a  happy  household  that  night. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

SUNRISE  came  to  Lost  Valley,  these  clear  summer 
days,  as  though  the  first  chapter  of  Genesis  repeated 
itself.  The  wise  eye  and  the  uplifted  heart  might  well 
have  believed  that  God  was  creating  His  light  for  the 
first  time.  There  was  nothing  stale  in  the  spectacle; 
nothing  to  hint  the  millions'  of  preceding  dawns.  John 
Lawrence  could  have  told  you  how  fresh,  miraculous,  and 
unembittered  was  the  first  slow  flush  of  the  valley  in  the 
sun,  before  it  became  aware  of  man.  But  John  Lawrence 
held  that  knowledge  locked  in  his  heart,  a  thousand  miles 
away,  and  Breens  and  Finches  met  the  hour  with  burdened 
eyes. 

No  Breen  or  Finch,  no  Leffingwell  or  Mellen,  saw  the 
masque  enacted,  that  July  morning.  The  thickets  in 
which  Lost  Brook  took  cover  secreted  it  from  all  spec 
tators.  Andrew  Lockerby  was  on  his  way  to  Siloam; 
Madge  Lockerby  was  still  asleep;  and  Granny  lay  whis 
pering  on  her  four-poster,  waiting  to  be  dressed  and  fed. 
Before  dawn,  Giuseppe,  the  Italian,  had  made  his  getaway 
from  the  Finches'  disused  barn.  He  had  not  forgotten  the 
stone  flung  the  afternoon  before,  and  he  rose  up  earliest 
of  all  in  the  Valley  (except  perhaps  Andrew  Lockerby) 
and  stumped  silently  down  a  cow  path  to  the  brook,  where, 
propping  his  organ  against  a  thick  clump  of  alders,  he  ate 
and  drank,  and  dipped  his  head  to  shake  the  sleep  out  of 
his  eyes.  He  cursed  the  trail  that  had  led  him  to  Lost 
Valley,  and  shook  his  fist  and  gritted  his  teeth  as  he 
thought  of  the  pass  to  be  climbed.  Taddeo,  the  monkey, 
8  103 


LOST  VALLEY 

while  his  owner  lingered,  resumed  his  arboreal  habits,  as 
far  as  the  slackened  rope  would  permit.  After  half  an 
hour's  repose,  the  Italian  jerked  the  monkey  down  from 
a  young  ash  and  walked  slowly  toward  the  mouth  of  the 
valley,  keeping  to  the  friendly  thickets  and  the  winding 
course  of  Lost  Brook.  The  rope  was  still  held  slack,  and 
Taddeo  climbed  and  danced  and  leaped  from  bough  to 
bough,  rending  the  foliage  with  a  pygmy  crash,  scuttering 
down  to  take  a  light  tumble  on  the  rocks  in  midstream, 
chattering  insolently  to  the  vociferous  birds.  Neither 
Giuseppe  nor  Taddeo  marked  the  light  figure  that  stalked 
them,  or  knew  that  the  insubstantial  shapes  of  drama 
were  gathering,  ahead,  upon  their  path. 

A  furtive  figure  that  stumbled  into  the  sun,  then  ran 
with  frightened  little  steps  into  the  shadow  of  great 
trees — still  a  cavelike  gloom  unrecovered  by  the  daylight 
...  a  mild  disturbance  of  green  leaves,  quick  pantings  in 
the  silence,  a  bold  step  in  the  open,  a  rustle  of  underbrush 
as  she  found  haven  from  her  own  fears  ...  a  face  uplifted 
to  the  narrow  streak  of  sunlight  that  cut  down  to  the 
brook's  surface  .  . .  then  a  gentle,  almost  inaudible  moving, 
amid  the  grass  and  fern,  toward  the  moving  goal.  Lola, 
child  of  Lost  Valley — sprung,  she,  too,  no  less  surely  than 
Arthur,  Madge,  and  Granny,  from  the  graveyard  on 
Barker's  Hill — followed  her  Gleam. 

Not  all  the  new  jargon  of  psychiatry — its  "complexes," 
its  "impulses,"  and  its  "traumas" — can  explain  in  human, 
intelligible  fashion  the  soul  of  Lola  Lockerby.  (By  that 
name  the  Valley  called  her,  when  it  had  need;  for  there 
were  reasons,  stronger  than  law,  against  calling  her  by 
that  of  her  mother's  family.  Lola  Lockerby — or  Locker- 
bys'  Lola — but  never  a  hint  of  any  other  surname,  though 
all  knew  the  dark  history,  and  Bert  Breen  better  than  the 
rest.)  No  normal  creature,  abiding  by  logical  tests,  can 
say  just  what  Taddeo  the  monkey  seemed  to  her.  The 
104 


LOST  VALLEY 

vision  had  struck  deep — such  a  shaft  of  light  as  had  never 
before  been  sunk  into  her  heart's  obscurity.  Enraptured, 
she  had  watched;  and  the  degree  of  the  rapture  was  marked 
by  its  lasting  power.  Lola,  so  untenacious,  so  forgetful, 
had  waked  again  and  again,  to  remember  vividly.  Her 
scattering  senses  were  focused  by  the  recollection  of  the 
creature  that  had  been  made  manifest  to  her  in  the  golden 
death  of  day.  Unless  intensity  itself  be  morbid,  there  was 
no  morbidness  in  the  girl's  impulse.  Who  knows  how  the 
girl's  undeveloped  brain  had  conceived  Taddeo?  Thoughts, 
in  our  mature  sense,  I  believe  she  had  not.  But,  somehow, 
travesty  called  to  travesty,  the  unachieved  species  to  the 
unachieved  soul.  Lockerbys*  Lola  distinguished  between 
animals  and  men,  placing  herself,  with  diffident  instinct, 
apart  from  both.  But  this  little  creature  with  human 
gestures,  yet  helpless  and  small  and  dumb  as  human 
beings  were  not,  appealed  to  what  she  had  of  imagination, 
and  synthesized  experience  for  her,  as  nothing  else  had 
ever  done.  The  wonder  of  its  caperings,  its  hands  and 
feet,  its  little  coat  and  cap,  its  wistful  face,  that  seemed 
to  understand  only  in  part,  even  as  she  understood !  Yet 
she  felt  awed  by  its  grace,  its  marvelous  behavior. 

When  she  waked  before  dawn,  she  remembered  again. 
"Finches'  barn,"  Madge  had  said.  And  they  had  talked, 
at  supper,  as  if  the  miracle  would  depart  from  the  Valley 
on  the  morrow  and  never  come  back.  She  would  not  be 
able  to  bear  that.  Nothing  mattered  but  that  she  should 
not  lose  it.  "Monkey" — that  was  what  they  had  called 
it.  "Monkey."  She  whispered  it  over  to  herself — 
"monkey" — as  a  saint  might  murmur  one  of  the  names  of 
God.  Lola  rose  quietly  before  light,  and  dressed  as  best 
she  could,  washing  her  face  carefully  and  combing  out  her 
long  hair — not  to  please  Madge,  for  Madge  was  super 
seded,  but  because  she  was  going  to  follow  her  Gleam. 
What  this  would  involve,  Lola  was  preserved  from  con- 

105 


LOST  VALLEY 

sidering.  The  most  dynamic  impulse  she  had  ever  had 
left  her  able  only  to  submit  herself  to  it.  No  more  than 
ever  could  she  plan  or  foresee.  She  was  the  bit  of  metal 
that  jerks  helplessly  after  the  magnet,  nothing  more. 

Her  first  glimpse  of  Taddeo  hanging  from  a  bough  by 
his  tail  made  her  gasp  for  joy.  She  had  not  remembered 
wrong.  The  marvel  was  there  in  the  sun.  "Monkey," 
Lola  wrhispered  to  herself.  Had  there  been  no  Giuseppe, 
she  would  have  come  forward  boldly  to  make  friends 
with  Taddeo — if  he  would  let  her.  But  Giuseppe  belonged 
to  the  world  of  people.  People  were  incomprehensible, 
and  coerced  you.  Perhaps  the  man  would  drive  her  back. 
If  only  there  were  no  man!  But  Lola  took  Giuseppe's 
ownership  of  the  monkey  as  fatalistically  as  she  took 
other  things.  She  must  not  let  him  see  her,  lest  he  should 
send  her  home.  And  her  feet  must  pursue — she  could  not 
stop  them  from  pursuing.  Once,  she  was  nearly  upon 
them,  and  peered  in  ecstasy  and  fear  through  a  screen  of 
leaves.  Giuseppe  had  halted  to  drink  once  more  from  the 
brook.  "Monkey,"  Lola  whispered  to  herself,  as  she 
crouched  waiting  for  Giuseppe  to  move  on.  "Monkey." 
She  did  not  look  forward  to  the  moment  when  the  man 
must  know  she  was  following — any  more  than  she  had 
looked  forward  to  hunger  when  she  had  slipped  out  of  the 
house  without  food.  And,  thanks  to  the  shaded  windings 
of  the  brook,  she  had  kept  her  distance,  unperceived,  a 
soft-stepping  golden  wraith  amid  the  foliage,  all  the  way 
to  the  mouth  of  the  valley,  where  one  must  turn  for  the 
climb  up  Roundtop. 

Giuseppe,  emerging  near  the  bridge,  stared  up  at  the 
pass.  He  would  have  liked  to  rest  where  he  was,  but  he 
had  started  wisely  before  the  sun  was  high,  and  he  must 
keep  his  advantage.  He  still  had  a  few  scraps  of  food  in 
his  bandanna,  and  he  would  eat  his  next  meal  among 
the  woods  at  the  top  of  the  pass.  His  disgust  was  dra- 
106 


LOST  VALLEY 

matic;  he  swore  volubly,  rolling  out  his  guttural  oaths 
with  a  pleasurable  frenzy;  but  hard  Neapolitan  sense 
guided  his  actions,  and  he  shifted  the  weight  of  the  organ 
slightly,  and  went  on  with  bowed  head,  shutting  his  teeth 
against  more  expenditure  of  breath.  Lockerbys'  Lola 
gave  him  a  long  start — here  on  the  open  road  she  could 
follow  at  a  safer  distance — and  loitered  almost  an  eighth 
of  a  mile  behind.  She  had  been  often  enough  to  Siloam 
to  know  that  the  road  led  nowhere  else.  She  was  not 
afraid  of  losing  them. 

A  new  fear  came  to  her,  however,  as  she  saw  a  farm 
wagon  crawling  down  the  zigzag  road  from  Roundtop. 
She  did  not  know  that  Andrew  Lockerby  had  gone  early 
to  Siloam,  but  she  did  know  that  almost  any  neighbor 
might  stop  and  question  her.  She  had  no  sense  of  wrong 
doing,  but  she  was  too  used  to  the  inscrutable  ways  of 
"folks"  not  to  expect  interference  at  any  moment  of  her 
life.  She  had  been  happier  in  the  stealthy  chase  along  the 
hidden  banks  of  Lost  Brook.  Her  head  swam  as  she  tried 
to  think.  Thinking  was  beyond  her:  she  had  to  give  it 
up,  baffled  by  processes  she  could  not  control.  But  when 
thought  failed  her,  instinct  came  to  help  out  her  passion. 
She  would  not  take  the  road.  There  was  a  steep  short 
cut  over  Roundtop,  back  of  the  Breens'.  She  had  more 
than  once  gone  that  way,  berrying.  Though  she  could  not 
plan,  she  had  some  of  the  secret  aptitudes  of  an  animal. 
There  was  that  in  her  which  knew,  without  mental  effort, 
how  to  take  cover,  how  to  foil  pursuit,  how  to  sense  a  dis 
tant  goal,  unterrified  by  the  devious  way.  She  doubled 
back  and  entered  on  the  loop  of  the  Valley  road. 

When  Giuseppe,  part  way  up  the  height,  halted  and 
looked  back  to  gauge  the  distance  he  had  come,  he  saw  a 
pink  sunbonnet  far  to  his  left,  on  the  billowy  slope  of 
Roundtop,  and  his  Latin  eye  approved  the  blob  of  color 
among  the  stunted  thorns.  But  Giuseppe,  though  already 

107 


LOST  VALLEY 

enmeshed,  was  still  as  innocent  as  Taddeo,  who,  at  rest 
on  the  organ,  unconscious  of  deification,  scratched. 

Madge  Lockerby,  lapped  in  her  happiness  as  in  silken 
sheets,  overslept  that  morning.  When  the  light  forced 
her  eyes  open,  she  sprang  almost  in  terror  from  her  bed. 
There  would  be  no  time  for  Granny  and  Lola  now. 
She  must  help  Jake  Leffingwell  milk  the  cows  and  do  the 
chores  before  she  could  dream  of  breakfast.  The  house 
was  quiet,  and  she  dashed  downstairs  and  out  to  the  barn, 
shaking  her  head  from  side  to  side  to  toss  the  drowsiness 
out  of  her  young  eyes.  Madge  milked  slowly — the  work 
did  not  often  fall  to  her — and  in  her  mood  of  content  and 
compassion  finished  the  whole  task  in  the  rude  dairy  before 
paying  attention  to  her  natural  hunger.  She  set  the  milk 
in  the  pans,  washed  the  pails  and  hung  them  on  their 
hooks  to  dry.  There  was  a  great  rip,  she  remembered,  in 
her  uncle's  overalls.  She  took  her  needle  and  mended  it 
before  she  went  into  the  kitchen.  As  she  set  the  filled 
kettle  on  the  stove,  she  saw  the  litter  from  Andrew  Locker- 
by's  breakfast — saw,  too,  that  the  woodbox  was  nearly 
empty.  She  washed  the  dishes  and  swept  the  kitchen, 
tidying  it  as  if  her  own  meal  were  over  and  done  with. 
Some  spirit  of  delay  entered  into  Madge  that  morning, 
some  desire  to  do  the  less  immediate  things  first.  The 
house  was  still  quiet — for  she  listened  outside  Granny's 
room  and  at  the  staircase  door.  It  would  be  hard  on  her 
uncle  to  come  back  and  find  early  chores  still  waiting.  She 
was  renewed  like  the  eagle  with  her  untroubled  sleep — a 
deeper  sleep  than  sorrow  can  ever  furnish — and,  still 
careless  of  breakfast,  she  went  out  into  the  woodyard 
and  wielded  the  ax  with  strong  arms.  She  split  a  fine 
pile  of  kindlings,  and  plenty  of  firewood  to  go  on  with 
through  the  day,  then  filled  the  boxes  by  the  stove,  in  a 
glow  of  generous  labor.  She  had  much  ado  to  keep  her 
108 


LOST  VALLEY 

hands  from  weeding  the  little  plot  by  the  kitchen  window 
where  she  had  planted  zinnias  and  nasturtiums.  A  furious 
energy  possessed  her,  and  she  longed  to  do  first  the  things 
that  came  last — knowing,  as  one  does,  that  what  must  be 
done  will  be,  and  that  then  there  may  be  no  energy  to 
spare.  Common  sense  told  her,  however,  that  she  could 
not  postpone  her  own  breakfast,  or  Granny's,  or  Lola's, 
too  long;  so  she  made  coffee  and  prepared  food,  then  wTent 
to  Granny's  room  and  helped  her  dress.  Presently  she 
led  the  old  woman  into  the  kitchen,  gave  her  breakfast, 
and  ate  her  own.  It  w^as  so  quiet  upstairs  that  Lola  must 
still  be  sleeping.  What  if  it  was  eight  o'clock?  She  would 
settle  Granny  for  the  morning,  and  then  see  to  Lola.  It 
was  a  fine  thing  for  the  child  to  sleep  like  that.  It  had 
turned  half  past  eight  before  Madge  mounted  the  stairs 
and  went  into  Lola's  little  room  to  w^ake  her.  Alice,  the 
doll,  lay  alone  in  the  tumbled  emptiness  of  the  bed. 

The  shock  to  Madge  was  so  great  that  for  a  moment  she 
could  do  nothing  but  sit  down  and  stare  about  her.  She 
could  not  remember  that  this  thing  had  ever  happened 
before.  She  looked  to  see  if  Lola  could  have  hidden  from 
her;  she  called;  but  she  knew,  in  spite  of  such  pretense, 
that  Lola  was  not  in  the  house.  Presently  her  brain 
began  to  collect  hypotheses.  The  first  she  fastened  on 
was  that  of  her  uncle's  having  taken  Lola  to  Siloam  with 
him.  Her  heart  leaped  at  the  thought,  but  in  midleap 
fell  back.  Andrew  Lockerby  would  never  have  taken 
Lola;  and  even  if,  with  some  extraordinary  impulse  of 
charity,  he  had  done  so,  he  would  have  roused  Madge  to 
get  her  ready.  And  Lola  had  left  no  breakfast  things: 
she  had  not  eaten.  Besides — Uncle  Andrew  simply  would 
not  have  done  it.  It  was  not  within  possibility. 

Madge  descended  and  peered  into  every  corner  of  the 
house.  She  sought  out  Jake  Leffingwell.  He  had  not  seen 
Lola  that  morning;  which  meant  that  she  had  not  been 

109 


LOST  VALLEY 

sauntering  about  the  farm.  Hatless,  aghast,  her  mind  a 
vortex  of  fears — though  perplexity  so  reigned  in  her  that 
no  one  fear  was  definite — she  ran  up  the  road  to  the 
Leffingwells',  then  to  the  Finches'.  No  one  had  seen  her 
— not  even  Ma'am  Finch,  who  sat  immobile  all  day  in 
her  front  window,  a  perpetual  trap  for  any  bit  of  news 
that  passed.  Lola,  then,  had  strayed  farther  afield. 
Madge,  suddenly  tired,  walked  back  to  her  home  very 
slowly.  The  dusty  road  impeded  her  feet,  which  had  noth 
ing  to  hasten  for.  She  dragged  a  little  on  her  homeward 
way.  The  fear  that  had  at  last  detached  itself  from  the 
vortex  was  taking  real  shape  in  her  mind,  plumping  itself 
out  into  a  conviction.  It  was  the  worst  thing  that  could 
have  happened;  and  doubtless  it  had  happened.  Lola 
had  gone  to  Breens' — slipping  off  early,  as  of  set  purpose. 
It  was  the  secrecy  of  the  girl's  flight  that  obsessed  and 
frightened  Madge.  Lola  the  witless  had  had  wit  enough 
to  dress  herself  quietly,  to  open  and  shut  doors  noiselessly, 
yes,  even  to  creep  with  furry  stealth  through  Madge's  own 
room  while  Madge  lay  sleeping.  There  had  been  intention 
in  it.  Had  it  been  only  a  wild  vagary,  a  desultory  adven 
ture,  Lola  would  have  chattered  and  clattered  as  usual. 
There  was  no  pride  in  her  heart  at  Lola's  manifestation  of 
intelligence,  only  a  sick  conviction  that  Lola  had  been 
lured,  misled,  into  this  new  capacity  for  concealment. 
Her  suspicion  rose  before  her  in  the  shape  of  Bert  Breen. 
Back  in  the  house,  Madge  considered.  She  felt  cool 
enough,  but  real  reasoning  was  beyond  her.  Hers  was  the 
very  mood  in  which  people,  threatened  by  a  conflagration, 
collect  with  deliberate  care  the  most  trivial  things  to  save, 
forgetting  their  treasures.  She  forgot,  that  is,  essential 
things — forgot  Andrew  Lockerby,  forgot  the  dangers  of 
leaving  Granny  alone,  forgot  even  to  speak  to  Jake 
Leffingwell,  forgot  any  necessity  of  preparation,  explana 
tion.  She  must  get  over  to  Breens'  and  deal  with  Bert. 
110 


LOST  VALLEY 

The  fact  that  she  was  not  the  best  person  to  deal  with 
him  did  not  enter  her  mind.  Her  vision  had  narrowed 
to  the  immediate,  and  a  terrific  sense  of  haste  was  upon 
her. 

Madge,  in  her  little  room,  changed  her  clothes  with 
slow,  shaking  hands.  The  fresh  green  gingham  that  she 
had  chosen  with  a  light  heart,  two  hours  earlier,  she  took 
off,  and  replaced  with  a  muslin  waist  and  an  old  blue 
serge  skirt.  Why?  She  did  not  quite  know.  It  was 
better  for  rough  work — for  search,  or  pursuit,  or  battle. 
She  pinned  on  a  hat.  Then  she  took  out  her  hoard  of 
money  and  fastened  it  with  a  safety  pin  into  the  pocket 
of  her  black  moreen  petticoat.  In  that  dim,  distracted 
haste  of  hers  she  clutched  at  the  floating  thought  that 
Bert  Breen — or  his  flaunting  wife — might  be  bribable. 
She  still  did  not  tell  herself  in  words  what  might  have 
happened;  she  stopped,  deliberately,  at  the  notion  that 
some  dreadful,  cruel  trick  had  been  played  on  her  and 
Lola.  He  might  promise  Lola  candy,  and  shut  her  up 
somewhere,  to  tease  her  and  worrit  the  family.  But  that 
would  not  be  Bert  Breen's  limit . . .  and  she  must  find  Lola 
before  Bert  Breen  had  time  for  too  much  wickedness. 
Evil  had  come  to  her,  and  she  traced  it  to  the  most  evil 
source  at  hand. 

She  took  the  short  cut  by  the  brook,  dealing  by  instinct 
with  underbrush  and  stepping-stones  and  poison  ivy. 
As  she  emerged,  breathless  and  a  little  scratched,  opposite 
the  Breens'  place,  she  stopped  to  reconnoiter.  Should 
she  go  to  the  house  first?  Or  should  she  hunt  about  the 
farm  buildings  for  the  master?  She  crossed  the  road  to 
the  open  gate  of  the  farmyard,  to  spy  out  the  land  from 
that  vantage  point.  She  had  hardly  stepped  within  the 
inclosure  when  Bert  Breen  himself  hailed  her,  from  the 
woodshed  door. 

"Hello,  Madge!  Don't  see  you  very  often.  Lord! 

Ill 


LOST  VALLEY 

I'm  dry!  Come  up  to  the  house  and  have  some  root 
beer." 

He  swept  the  sweat  off  his  forehead  with  a  bare,  freckled 
arm. 

Madge's  heart  sank  a  little.  He  wasn't  hiding  ...  he 
wasn't  going  to  crow  over  her,  either  ...  he  was  going  to 
lead  her  on  and  pretend.  She  had  been  prepared  for  in 
stant  hostility — but  not  for  such  need  of  wariness. 

"Gripes!  it's  hot,"  he  went  on.  "All  dressed  up, 
ain't  you?  Goin'  somewheres?" 

Madge  moistened  her  lips  nervously  with  a  temporizing 
tongue.  She  wouldn't  touch  the  root  beer — not  she! 
But  just  what  could  she  do?  She  had  somehow  thought 
she  could  challenge  the  Breens  at  once;  and  she  must  still 
challenge  them,  yes.  But  why  did  he  make  it  so  hard,  so 
bewildering,  for  her? 

"Only  here."  She  made  the  phrase  as  menacing  as  she 
could. 

A  curious  look  passed  over  his  sly  face.  Then  he 
laughed.  "  I'm  sure  we're  much  obliged  to  you.  Did  you 
want  any  thin'  particular?" 

Madge  flung  her  head  back  and  looked  at  him  with 
flaming,  belligerent  eyes.  "Yes!"  Did  he  think  he  could 
toll  her  on  like  that  with  his  foolishness? 

"  Well,  what  is  it?  I  might  'a'  known  'twasn't  a  friendly 
call.  This  time  in  the  morning,  too.  Anythin'  the  matter 
to  home?  Saw  Andrew  over  to  Siloam.  Moll  an'  I  been 
over  to  a  weddin'  at  Hebron — my  cousin's  daughter. 
Spent  the  night  over  there,  an'  come  back  early.  They 
was  great  doin's." 

He  had  led  the  way  to  the  house  by  this  time,  and 
Madge  was  helplessly  following  him. 

At  the  kitchen  door  he  turned  on  her.  "What  do  you 
want,  Madge,  anyway?" 

"I  want  Lola." 


LOST  VALLEY 

No  one  who  was  not  confined,  as  Madge  was,  to  the 
groove  of  one  suspicion,  could  have  failed  to  note  that 
Breen's  eyes  widened  suddenly  with  real  surprise. 

"Lola?     What's  the  matter  with  her?" 

"That's  just  what  I  want  to  know,  Bert  Breen." 

"Humph!"  Breen,  wholly  bewildered,  started  to  dis 
claim  violently.  But  the  sinister  crook  in  his  nature  led 
him  to  forbear.  Being  innocent  in  the  matter,  he  could 
take  pleasure  in  keeping  Madge  on  tenterhooks  for  a 
little.  He  knew  that  she  would  not  believe  his  asserva- 
tions,  and  he  amused  himself  by  teasing  her,  even  while 
he  denied. 

"I  don't  know  nothing  about  Lola,  Madge.  I  'ain't 
seen  her  for  quite  a  spell.  I  don't  wonder  you  come  here, 
for  she's  likely  to  hang  round  if  she  gets  a  chance,  but  we 
was  over  to  my  cousin's  all  yesterday  an'  last  night,  and 
Lola  sure  wa'n't  at  the  wedding.  When  did  you  lose 
track  of  her?" 

As  Breen  had  known,  Madge  had  no  respect  for  his  word, 
but  even  Madge  began  to  waver  in  the  face  of  the  an 
nouncement  about  the  wedding  in  Hebron.  He  did  have 
kin  there,  and  she  had  heard  that  one  of  the  girls  was 
going  to  be  married,  some  time  along.  She  was  silent, 
considering;  and  Breen  pushed  his  way  into  the  cool 
summer  kitchen,  letting  the  screen  door  bang  after  him. 

"Hey,  Moll!"  he  called. 

A  voice  answered  him  from  a  distance. 

"She's  changing  her  dress,"  he  commented.  "We 
only  got  back  a  half  an  hour  ago.  Better  come  in,  hadn't 
you?  You  can  look  everywheres  for  Lola  if  you  want 
to."  He  backed  his  sardonic  politeness  with  a  manifest 
sneer. 

Madge  dreaded  the  mere  entering  this  hostile  house, 
but  she  could  not  leave  the  ground,  thus  baffled.  Some 
instinct  told  her  to  give  him  no  facts  yet — to  wait  and 

113 


LOST  VALLEY 

see  what  she  could  elicit.  Half  hesitatingly,  she  pushed 
at  the  screen  door  and  moved  toward  the  threshold. 
Almost  without  volition,  she  entered  and  stood  leaning 
against  the  door  jamb. 

Bert  took  a  pitcher  from  a  table  and  disappeared  into 
the  cellar.  When  Mrs.  Breen  came  heavily  and  swiftly 
into  the  kitchen,  fastening  the  last  buttons  on  her  soiled 
pink  calico  dress  as  she  advanced,  she  saw  Madge  standing 
there  in  a  troubled  maze. 

"You,  Madge  Lockerby?  And  what  would  you  be 
wanting  ?  "  A  little  truculent,  Moll  Breen  placed  her  hands 
on  her  ample  hips  and  stared.  There  was  a  savor  of 
gypsy  freedom  in  all  Moll  Breen's  ways.  Perhaps  a  less 
abandoned  place  than  the  Valley  could  not  have  held  her 
at  all.  In  spite  of  her  grossness,  her  heavy  animal  content, 
there  was  about  her  the  hint  of  a  creature  that  will  not  be 
bound,  a  being  of  wayside  appetites,  that  gorges  itself 
under  the  stars,  sleeps,  and  moves  on.  The  Valley  had 
never  looked  for  the  marriage  to  last.  It  was,  more  than 
probably,  this  very  quality  in  her  which  had,  after  a 
fashion,  held  Bert  Breen.  Bert,  to  put  it  delicately,  was 
not  the  marrying  kind. 

The  man  came  up  from  the  cellar  with  his  brimming 
pitcher. 

"Want?" — he  took  up  the  question.  "She  wants 
Lola."  He  grinned  at  Madge.  "I  can't  make  out  when 
she  lost  her.  But  she  seems  to  think  Lola  come  over 
here.  Mebbe  she  did,  while  we  was  away.  But  I  been 
tellin'  her  we  'ain't  seen  the  girl.  P'raps  if  you  tell  her, 
Moll,  she'll  believe  you.  She  don't  seem  to  pay  no 
attention  to  what  I  say." 

He  drank  deeply,  tilting  his  goblet  high  in  air. 

Moll  Breen,  arms  still  akimbo,  looked  from  her  hus 
band  to  Madge  Lockerby  and  back  again,  as  if  her  gaze 
were  channeling  a  secret  path  between  them.  Back  and 
114 


LOST  VALLEY 

forth  her  glance  wove  its  way,  and  she  wet  her  full  red 
lips  with  a  sly,  pointed  tongue.  Madge  waited,  helpless. 
She  was  tingling  with  the  desire  for  conflict;  she  would 
have  liked  to  attack  them  bodily,  to  shake  and  worry 
them  into  revelation;  but  even  her  tongue  was  paralyzed. 
She  had  nothing  to  go  on  until  they  said — one  or  the 
other  of  them — something  more. 

"You  can  bet  Bert  'ain't  seen  her,  Madge  Lockerby. 
If  she'd  come  here  after  him,  I'd  soon  mark  her  baby 
face." 

Ah,  Madge  could  speak  then!  "Lola'd  never  come 
here  after  him,  Mrs.  Breen !  Not  unless  he  did  his  best  to 
make  her.  He's  always  teasing  her  when  he  gets  a  chance, 
and  he  might  think  it  was  a  good  joke  to  toll  her  over 
here  and  get  us  all  worried  to  death.  You  know  Bert 
Breen  as  well  as  I  do." 

"A  deal  better,  I  should  hope!"  Mrs.  Breen's  coarse 
mirth  overflowed.  "He  might  fool  round  with  Lola,  but 
I  guess  it  wouldn't  last  long.  He  don't  hanker  for  no 
idiot  brats." 

The  agony  of  all  this  was  well  nigh  intolerable,  but 
Madge's  incertitude  still  held  her  there,  raked  by  this 
vulgar  fire.  She  gathered  her  strength  for  a  last  appeal. 

"Never  mind  Bert.  Look  me  straight  in  the  face,  Mrs. 
Breen,  and  tell  me  when  you  did  see  my  sister.  I  tell  you 
the  honest  truth.  She  went  to  bed  last  night  as  happy 
as  could  be,  and  this  morning  she'd  slipped  away  before 
sunup.  She's  not  at  Finches'  nor  Leffingwells*.  I  came 
to  see  if  she'd  strayed  over  here.  Uncle  don't  know  any 
thing  about  it.  He  got  his  own  breakfast  and  went  to 
Siloam  early.  And  I  must  find  Lola  before  I  do  anything 
else.  I'll  rouse  the  Valley  to  hunt  for  her — so  will  uncle, 
when  he  gets  back." 

"When  Andrew  gets  back,  he  can  tell  you  we  met  him 
in  Siloam — if  you  don't  believe  me.  Shucks,  Madge! 

115 


LOST  VALLEY 

We  'ain't  seen  the  girl,  and  don't  know  nothin*  about 
her."  Breen  spoke  in  an  offhand  way,  and  started  toward 
the  door. 

"Maybe  you're  telling  the  truth  for  once,  Bert,"  Madge 
replied  heavily.  "I  wish  I  could  trust  you." 

"Thanks.  I  guess  you'll  hare  to,  this  time."  He 
laughed  unpleasantly,  and  went  out  through  the  door  into 
the  yard.  When  Breen  was  out  of  sight,  his  wife  moved 
slowly  toward  Madge.  Coming  quite  close,  she  halted  and 
surveyed  her,  with  an  air  both  hostile  and  contemptuous. 

"See  here,  Madge,"  she  said  finally.  "I'm  about  fed 
up  with  your  insults.  Bert's  easy-goin',  but  I  ain't — 
always.  If  you  pass  the  word  that  we  got  anything  to  do 
with  this,  and  get  a  lot  of  them  nosin'  round  here,  you'll 
be  sorry  you  was  ever  born.  Lola  ain't  here,  and  'ain't 
been  here — and  I  can  prove  it." 

The  woman  drew  back  as  if  she  had  planted  a  blow. 

Madge's  tears  flowed  in  spite  of  her.  "Prove  it,  then. 
And  I'll  go  somewhere  else  and  hunt.  Haven't  you  any 
kindness  in  you?" 

"Not  your  sort,  I  guess.  You  seem  to  think  Lola's  an 
angel  and  everyone's  seeking  to  do  her  an  injury.  If  the 
truth  was  known,  maybe  Lola's  more  up  to  snuff  than 
you  think  for.  I  don't  care  what  becomes  of  the  little 

,  so  long's  she  keeps  away  from  our  place.  You  wait 

a  minute,  Madge  Lockerby,  and  then  perhaps  you'll 
be  good  enough  to  take  yourself  off,  and  do  your  sniveling 
somewheres  else." 

Mrs.  Breen  padded  into  the  farther  part  of  the  house, 
and  returned  almost  immediately,  with  something  in  her 
hand. 

"Bert  'ain't  seen  this.  He  stopped  to  price  a  pig  off 
Lew  Mellen,  t'other  side  of  the  pass,  and  I  saw  this  rag 
stickin'  on  a  bush.  I  got  out  and  put  it  in  my  pocket. 
Seems  to  me  I  seen  it  on  you  the  night  of  the  huskin' 
116 


LOST  VALLEY 

before  your  beau  left  you  to  go  back  to  the  city.  I  s'pose 
you  hear  from  him  regular,  don't  you?" 

Madge  had  no  thought  to  spare  for  the  later  thrust. 
She  seized  the  "rag" — one  of  her  chief est  treasures,  a 
Roman  scarf  of  her  mother's,  that  she  was  wont  to  drape 
over  a  picture  on  her  bedroom  wall.  She  had  not  missed 
it  that  morning,  in  her  haste. 

"If  you  or  Andrew  didn't  leave  it  there,  I  guess  your 
precious  Lola  did,"  said  Mrs.  Breen.  "T'other  side  of  the 
pass  ain't  the  way  to  our  place,  I'd  have  you  know." 

"Where  was  it  you  found  it?" 

"A  good  quarter  mile  from  the  top  of  the  pass.  In  the 
bushes  about  ten  feet  from  the  road.  Now  if  you're  quite 
through  callin'  names,  Miss  Madge  Lockerby,  you  might 
let  me  do  my  work.  When  you  go  pleasurin',  there's  a 
deal  piled  up  on  you  after  you  get  back." 

"What  time  was  it?"  Madge  had  stepped  toward  the 
door,  but  turned  to  ask  the  question. 

"Lord,  I  didn't  have  a  clock  to  look  at.  I  don't  know. 
Better  be  gettin'  along  to  Siloam,  hadn't  you?  Too  bad 
Bert  can't  harness  up  and  give  you  a  lift,  but  he's  way 
behindhand  as  it  is."  Then  she  descended  from  sarcasm. 
"If  I  was  you,  I'd  let  her  go  her  own  way.  She'll  never 
spell  no  thin'  but  trouble  for  you.  If  she  can  get  a  fancy 
man  of  her  own — with  her  pasty  face  and  her  shoulder 
blades  stickin'  out — I  sh'd  think  you'd  be  glad  to  be  shut 
of  her." 

Madge  turned  away  then  from  this  overpowering 
presence,  and  went  out  into  the  sunlight,  clutching  her 
scarf. 

The  power  that  had  staged  the  masque  by  the  brook, 
and  given  Madge  her  fever  for  irrelevant  tasks,  had  de 
layed  her  thus,  of  set  purpose,  at  the  Breens',  bent  on 
giving  Lola  time.  Its  popular  name  is  irony  of  fate, 
and  when  it  once  gets  to  work  it  does  not  deal  in  abortive 

117 


LOST  VALLEY 

plots.  In  its  own  good  time,  it  permitted  Madge  to  set 
her  face  toward  Siloam.  Her  last  hope — that  Andrew 
would  have  met  Lola  and  picked  her  up — was  wrenched 
from  her  when,  emerging  from  the  loop,  at  the  foot  of  the 
Roundtop  road,  she  saw  her  uncle,  alone  in  the  buckboard, 
nearing  their  own  place.  He  was  too  far  to  call  to — but 
Lola  was  not  with  him.  The  sense  of  haste,  which  had 
been  lulled  for  a  little  by  her  conviction  that  the  Breens 
were  the  key  of  the  situation,  rushed  back  upon  her. 
Lola  had  gone  a  certain  distance,  at  least,  toward  Siloam; 
had  crossed  the  pass,  and  descended  on  the  other  side. 
Andrew  had  not  met  her,  or  he  would  have  brought  her 
home.  Since  Mrs.  Breen  had  found  the  scarf,  Lola  must 
have  stayed  near  the  road.  That  meant  she  must  take 
the  road  herself.  She  would  keep  a  sharp  lookout  to 
either  side,  and  perhaps  she  would  find  her.  Madge  did 
not  dare  lose  time  by  going  home  and  wrangling  with  her 
uncle  for  permission  to  drive.  Besides,  she  might  have 
to  wander  off  the  road — go  where  she  couldn't  take  the 
buckboard.  And  she  must  hurry,  hurry,  hurry.  She 
started  to  run  uphill,  but  her  body  brought  its  wisdom 
to  bear  on  her  distraught  mind.  No:  she  must  walk 
steadily,  slowly,  saving  her  muscles,  keeping  her  stride 
to  the  precise  measure  of  her  need.  She  set  her  teeth,  and 
bowed  her  head  to  it,  as  Giuseppe,  the  Italian,  had  done 
three  hours  before. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

O ILOAM  drooped  a  little  that  day,  for  the  thermometer 
^  was  high.  The  men  who  loitered  round  Benner's 
let  argument  go  by  the  board.  The  women  pulled  all 
window  shades  down,  regardless  of  the  points  of  compass. 
There  was  a  constant  irregular  refrain  of  pump  handles 
as  child  after  child,  the  village  over,  got  itself  a  drink. 
Only  Sarah  Martin  was  minded  to  take  a  receipt  for  black 
berry  jelly  to  the  minister's  wife,  whose  artistic  tem 
perament  prevented  her  from  measuring  up,  as  a  house 
wife,  to  Siloam  standards.  Sarah  stepped  down  Siloam 
Main  Street  briskly,  aware  that  it  was  early  for  a  call, 
but  scorning  to  waste  a  good  afternoon  waiting  for  canon 
ical  hours.  She  had  a  grunt  of  contempt  for  the  per 
spiring  loungers  at  Benner's,  for  the  long  line  of  somewhat 
somnolent  houses  on  either  side  of  the  road.  Sarah 
Martin  pulled  down  shades  to  save  her  carpets  from 
fading,  but  she  did  not  close  her  rooms  to  the  daylight  for 
heat's  sake.  Sarah  in  midsummer  was  almost  sanguine. 
Beyond  Benner's,  within  sight  of  the  parsonage,  she 
stopped  and  peered  through  her  glasses.  A  certain 
screwing  of  the  face,  an  accentuation  of  premature 
wrinkles,  accompanied  the  sudden  halt.  She  went  on, 
then,  changing  her  course  to  veer  across  the  Common. 
"Madge  Lockerby!  Were  you  coming  to  see  me?" 
Madge,  who  had  drifted  in  her  weariness  on  to  a  bit  of 
sagging  wall,  looked  up  at  her  almost  apathetically.  Her 
face  was  crimson  from  the  heat,  and  undried  tears  had 
seamed  it  crazily. 
9  119 


LOST  VALLEY 

"No.  Yes,  maybe,  Miss  Martin.  I  don't  know.  I — " 
She  pulled  out  a  crumpled  handkerchief  and  wiped  her 
forehead.  "It  was  hot,  coming  over.  I  was  resting  a 
little,  and  wondering  where  it  would  be  easiest  to  get  a 
drink." 

"Walked  over?"  Sarah  Martin  stood  near  her  briskly 
— for  Sarah  could  be  brisk  even  in  repose. 

"Yes.  I  just  came.  It  took  me  a  long  time  because  I 
kept  stopping  to  look  everywhere.  Do  you  know  what 
time  it  is,  Miss  Martin?" 

"Clock  said  ten  minutes  of  three  when  I  started. 
About  three  o'clock  now.  Did  Andrew  Lockerby  let  you 
walk  all  this  way?  Other  folks  seem  to  think  it's  a  hot 
day." 

"Hot!"  Madge  moved  her  body  a  little.  The  serge 
skirt  and  thick  petticoat  seemed  stuck  to  her.  The  fresh 
shirt  waist  was  damp  and  wrinkled  on  the  young  shoul 
ders,  and  her  hat  was  like  lead.  "Well,  it  is  hot,"  she 
answered  grimly.  For  sheer  exhaustion,  she  had  repressed 
her  query  while  they  passed  the  time  of  day,  but  now  it 
broke  from  her.  "You  haven't  seen  Lola,  have  you?" 

"Lola?  No.  Is  she  over  here?  I've  been  out  back  in 
the  garden  all  morning  till  dinner.  I  haven't  seen  anyone 
to-day  except  Jim  Smart,  who  brought  me  my  milk.  And 
that  was  early.  When  did  Lola  come  over?" 

"I  wish  I  knew."  Madge  shook  the  fresh  tears  from 
her  eyes  impatiently.  "I've  been  hunting  for  her  ever 
since  I  got  up.  She  slipped  out  early — before  I  was 
awake.  She  don't  seem  to  be  in  the  Valley.  Uncle 
came  over  to  Siloam  first  thing  this  morning,  before  I 
was  up.  I  saw  him  on  the  road  going  home,  but  Lola 
wasn't  with  him.  He  didn't  see  me.  He  don't  know 
where  I  am." 

"Pshaw,  Madge,  she's  gone  berrying,  or  some  such 
thing.  It's  a  pity  you  came  over  here  in  the  hot  sun. 
120 


LOST  VALLEY 

Lola  never  'd  stray  over  the  pass.  Probably  she  wandered 
in  to  the  neighbors'.'" 

"They  haven't  any  of  them  seen  her.  And — no,  I 
know  she  came  this  way."  She  was  loath  to  tell  Miss 
Martin  of  her  adventure  at  the  Breens'.  The  tradition 
that  had  linked  Miss  Martin  to  her  took  no  account  of 
Lola.  Her  rare  meetings  with  her  mother's  friend  were 
on  another  plane  from  the  Lockerby  existence.  She  was 
not  wont  to  mention  things  like  Breens  to  Miss  Martin; 
as  far  as  possible,  she  left  all  sordidness  out.  Sarah  Martin, 
moreover,  had  no  temptation  to  love  Lola;  for  Lola  had 
been  Madge's  reason  for  not  keeping  up  her  lessons.  Miss 
Martin,  like  most  folk  in  Siloam,  had  a  healthy  scorn  for 
the  degenerate  Valley;  and,  for  love  of  Mary  Lockerby, 
she  had  longed  to  snatch  Madge  therefrom.  Naturally — 
as  Madge  realized — she  could  have  no  sympathy  for  the 
human  derelicts  that  stood  in  the  way. 

The  school-teacher  still  stood  over  Madge  as  if  wishing 
by  her  own  attitude  to  galvanize  the  drooping  figure 
before  her. 

"Does  she  ever  come  over  here  alone?" 

"No." 

"Then  what  in  creation  makes  you  think  she's  come 
to-day?" 

Renewal  of  tears  was  the  only  reply.  Sarah  Martin 
put  her  hand  on  Madge's  shoulder,  and  the  peremptory 
habit  of  a  lifetime  made  her  shake  the  girl  ever  so  little. 
She  had  no  intention  whatever  of  abandoning  Mary 
Lockerby's  daughter. 

"Madge,  you  come  home  with  me.  You're  too  tuckered 
out  to  have  a  sensible  tongue  in  your  head.  I  don't  want 
to  interfere  in  your  family  affairs" — if  Madge's  head  had 
not  been  bent,  she  would  have  seen  a  faint  distasteful 
contraction  of  the  lips — "but  I'm  not  going  to  have  you 
sitting  round  Siloam  Common  crying  your  eyes  out.  If 

121 


LOST  VALLEY 

you  don't  care  for  the  speech  of  people,  I  do.  Your 
mother  'd  have  been  ashamed  of  you." 

Madge  stood  up  quickly,  as  if  stung.  She  wiped  her 
eyes  and  flung  her  head  back.  "There's  a  lot  of  things  in 
my  life,  Miss  Martin,  that  haven't  got  anything  to  do 
with  my  mother.  But  she'd  understand  that  I'm  tied  up 
to  them  all  the  same." 

Sarah  Martin  was  not  without  human  shrewdness  as 
well  as  classic  learning. 

"I  don't  doubt  it.  She  was  a  good  woman.  And  she 
had  a  head  on  her,  too.  If  she  could  speak,  she'd  tell  you 
to  come  home  with  me  and  tell  me  all  about  it." 

"But — but  I  mustn't  lose  time.  I  must  go  on  looking 
for  her  now."  She  started  to  move  with  an  aimless  little 
lunge. 

"Madge  Lockerby" — the  thin  hand  gripped  her — 
"you're  not  going  to  make  a  show  of  yourself  in  Siloam 
Street  while  I'm  here.  You  come  home  with  me  and  get 
some  food  and  drink,  and  wash  your  face,  and  talk  like 
a  sane  girl  to  me,  and  I'll  help  you  if  I  can.  You'll  save 
time  that  way,  I  can  tell  you.  The  condition  you're  in, 
folks  '11  pay  no  more  attention  to  you  than  if  you  were  a 

gypsy." 

"Oh!"  The  word  worked,  Sarah  Martin  could  not 
know  why.  Madge  straightened  herself,  and  squared  her 
shoulders.  Her  face  was  still  stained  and  smeared,  but 
she  held  her  head  like  a  proud  woman.  Half  an  hour 
later  in  Sarah  Martin's  vast,  delightful  kitchen,  she  was 
able  to  give  her  account  without  flinching. 

Puzzling  enough  it  was,  with  its  lacunce — Lola's  story 
with  Taddeo  left  out.  The  older  woman  grew  grim  in 
wardly  as  she  listened.  Undoubtedly  her  own  solution  was 
not  far  off  Moll  Breen's,  but  she  did  not  say  so  to  Madge. 

"You  believe  this  woman  told  you  the  truth  about  the 
scarf?" 


LOST  VALLEY 

"I  don't  believe  anything  just  because  she  says  it,  but 
I  know  the  scarf  was  in  my  room  last  night  when  I  went 
to  bed.  Nobody  could  have  taken  it  this  morning  except 
Lola." 

Then  Miss  Martin  spoke  to  Madge  as  one  whose  mind  is 
made  up. 

"You  stay  here.  I'll  go  out  and  see  if  anyone  has  seen 
Lola  in  town  to-day." 

"I'll  come,  too." 

"You'll  do  no  such  thing.  I'm  the  person  to  make 
inquiries.  I'll  see  those  idle  creatures  down  at  Benner's 
first.  And  I'll  ask  any  other  suitable  people.  If  she's 
here  in  Siloam,  I'll  find  it  out." 

It  was  more  than  three-quarters  of  an  hour  before  Miss 
Martin  returned,  and  Madge  was  in  twenty  minds  whether 
or  not  to  follow  her  to  Benner's.  She  was  standing  ir 
resolute  at  the  front  door  in  the  fragrant  gloom  of  the 
honeysuckle  when  the  older  woman  came  up  the  flagged 
path. 

"Did  anyone  see  her?"  she  cried. 

Sarah  Martin  made  a  diplomatic  concession  to  the 
weather.  "  I'm  hot,"  she  said.  "  I  want  a  glass  of  water." 
She  walked  past  Madge  into  the  depths  of  the  house. 
But  she  did  not  keep  her  waiting  long. 

"No,  nobody's  seen  her — not  exactly."  Miss  Martin 
sat  down  in  a  huge  haircloth  rocker  while  Madge  stood 
impatiently  before  her. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'not  exactly'?" 

"Don't  catch  me  up  so.  Asa  Cilley  says  he  saw  some 
young  thing,  that  might  have  been  Lola,  going  down  to 
the  bridge  where  the  trolley  comes  in.  But  he  wasn't  sure. 
Folks  don't  know  Lola  very  well  round  here,  you  see, 
Madge.  Nobody  else  has  seen  anything  that  looks  at 
all  like  her.  Even  old  Miss  Bunting,  and  she's  the  only 
woman  in  town  who's  had  her  front  shades  up  all  day — 

123 


LOST  VALLEY 

watching  to  see  who  went  to  Barker's  Creek.  Miss 
Bunting's  been  sitting  there,  like  a  lighthouse  keeper, 
since  breakfast,  and  she  knows  every  man,  woman,  and 
child  who's  been  by.  You  may  say,  Madge,  Lola  hasn't 
been  seen  in  Siloam.  As  for  Asa  Cilley,  I  don't  believe 
he  knows  Lola  from  a  hole  in  the  ground.  If  you'd  mis 
laid  the  Queen  of  England,  Asa  Cilley  would  most  likely 
think  he'd  seen  her  down  in  his  back  pasture.  Asa  always 
was  a  great  one  for  having  special  information." 

"Does  Mr.  Cilley  know  Lola?    Did  he  ever  see  her?" 

"Says  he  did,  one  time  when  you  brought  her  over  to 
the  cobbler's  last  summer.  He  thought  she  was  right 
pretty.  Of  course  if  he  sees  a  pretty  girl  down  by  the 
trolley  tracks,  it  must  be  Lola  Lockerby." 

"I  did  bring  her  over  once — not  to  the  cobbler's, 
though.  It  was  the  doctor:  she'd  hurt  her  arm." 

"Cobbler's  as  near  as  you'd  expect  Asa  to  get.  Prob 
ably  he's  never  seen  her  at  all.  What  did  she  have  on  this 
morning?" 

"  I  don't  know."  Madge's  voice  grew  deeper  in  trouble : 
she  was  never  shrill.  The  low  tone  now  was  almost  like 
that  of  a  man  in  gentle  mood.  "I  didn't  see  her  go,  and 
I  didn't  stop  to  hunt  among  her  clothes.  But  it  must 
have  been  a  gingham.  I  couldn't  say,  more  than  that. 
She  wore  her  pink  sunbonnet,  though,  for  it  wasn't  on 
the  nail,  and  she'd  have  had  to  search  round  in  the  attic 
for  anything  else." 

"  Humph !"  Asa  Cilley  had  mentioned  a  pink  sunbonnet. 
Sarah  wondered  whether  to  tell. 

"I  think  I'll  go  talk  to  Mr.  Cilley  myself."  Madge 
turned. 

"No,  I  wouldn't.  Everything  you  tell  him,  he'll  re 
member  he  saw — even  if  it  was  a  mile  off.  But  you  can 
go  down  to  the  trolley  tracks  and  ask  the  conductor, 
when  the  car  comes  in.  A  good  many  people  have  been 
124 


LOST  VALLEY 

over  to  Barker's  Creek  to-day,  because  it  was  the  last 
day  of  the  fair.  Somebody  'd  have  seen  her  if  she'd  got 
on  the  car.  Did  she  have  any  money?" 

"No.  At  least,  I  don't  see  where  she'd  have  got 
any." 

"The  car  wouldn't  have  been  much  good  to  her,  then — 
unless  she  was  with  some  one." 

Sarah  Martin  spoke  the  last  words  deliberately,  and,  as 
far  as  she  could,  without  emphasis.  But  the  implication, 
in  spite  of  her,  rang  out  in  Madge's  ears.  The  girl,  half 
way  to  the  door,  swept  about  and  faced  her.  She  forgot 
her  awe  of  the  older  woman,  and  gratitude  was  as  if  it 
had  never  been.  It  was  anger,  not  reproach,  that  quivered 
in  her  voice. 

"If  that's  what  you  think,  Miss  Martin — you're  as  bad 
as  Moll  Breen.  The  only  man  in  Lost  Valley  that's 
wicked  enough  to  lure  Lola  off  is  safe  at  home.  I've  seen 
him  this  morning.  I  dare  say  there's  a  lot  of  bad  folks  in 
Siloam — my  uncle  don't  think  much  of  it  as  a  place — 
but  Lola's  bashful.  She  don't  make  up  to  strangers. 
You  don't  know  Lola,  of  course" — she  threw  it  out  with 
contempt — "but  she's  good.  As  for  running  off  with 
strange  people — she'd  no  more  do  it  than  you  would, 
though  she's  so  pretty." 

Poor  Madge,  choosing  her  arrows  blindly  in  her  haste, 
never  stopping  to  search  her  quiver,  anxious  only  for  any 
means  of  insult. 

Sarah  Martin's  throat  tightened  and  began  to  hurt 
her.  She  hadn't  meant  to  insult  the  girl :  only  to  prepare 
her  for  what  she  was  afraid  she  would  have  to  face.  She 
looked  up  at  her  almost  humbly,  and  was  struck,  as  she 
never  had  been  before,  with  Madge's  beauty.  Emotion 
focused  Madge's  expression,  composed  the  outlines  of 
her  features,  made  definite  the  potentialities  of  her  face. 
In  stress  of  anger  she  fell,  all  unconscious,  into  a  plastic 

125 


LOST  VALLEY 

pose.    Arthur  Burton  in  that  instant  would  have  reached 
for  his  crayon. 

How  little  Lola  mattered,  thought  Sarah  Martin. 
Better,  far  better,  that  she  should  go,  and  give  Mary 
Fales's  daughter  her  chance.  For  very  rage  against 
Lola,  she  hardened  her  heart;  she  would  not  unsay  the 
words,  though  she  would  not  repeat  them. 

"Don't  take  it  like  that,  Madge,"  she  said  quietly. 
"I  only  want  to  help  you.  We'll  go  down  to  the  trolley 
and  see  if  we  can  find  out  anything.  Maybe  Asa  Cilley 
did  see  her.  She  might  have  picked  up  some  change  at 
home." 

But  Madge  was  unpacified.  The  very  weakness  of 
Lola  as  a  standard  to  cling  to  made  her  kick  away  all 
other  props.  She  chose  to  make  a  mad  act  of  faith,  and 
with  a  turn  of  the  hand  shaped  her  love  to  the  likeness  of 
a  creed. 

"No,  I  couldn't  let  you  come  with  me.  If  I  find  Lola, 
I'll  find  her  alone.  If  you  even  thought  those  things 
about  Lola,  it  might  keep  me  from  finding  her.  And  y« 
might  ask  shameful  questions.  The  poor  child's  lost.  She 
may  be  frightened — calling  for  me.  How  could  you  keep 
me  here  all  this  time?"  The  blood  slowed  a  little,  and 
Madge  tried  for  justice.  "You  have  been  kind — you've 
tried  to  be.  I'm  grateful.  But  you  can't  keep  me  any 
more.  I  have  a  lot  to  thank  you  for,  Miss  Martin;  I'll 
try  to  remember  that,  after  this  is  over.  I'm  going  now, 
and  I  don't  want  you  to  follow  me — or  talk  to  folks. 
You've  wasted  enough  of  my  tune."  She  went  out  of 
the  door. 

Even  Sarah  Martin,  who  was  little  given  to  indiscrimi 
nate  pity,  could  not  see  youth  so  hard  bestead  without 
aching  for  the  waste  of  it.  Her  own  cheek  was  nearly 
as  red  as  Madge's  own,  and  her  pride  was  pricked  all 
over  intolerably;  but  to  her  credit,  she  followed 
126 


LOST  VALLEY 

Madge  and  flung  a  few  plain  words  down  to  bridge  the 
abyss. 

"You  may  change  your  mind,  Madge,  about  wanting 
help.  If  you  do — we'll  forget  about  all  this,  and  begin 
over  again.  That's  all  I've  got  to  say."  She  shut  the 
front  door  and  went  back  into  her  kitchen,  where  she 
could  not  see  the  street. 

The  trolley  to  Barker's  Creek  leaves  Siloam  once  an 
hour,  "on  the  quarter  after."  You  go  down  to  the  bridge 
across  the  river — you  would  call  it  a  brook  if  you  did  not 
know  it  was  beginning  to  be  the  Mohican — and  sit  on  the 
stone  wall  to  wait,  if  it  is  fair.  If  it  rains,  you  sit  in  the 
stuffy  little  shelter,  and  read  the  patent-medicine  adver 
tisements  pasted  up  on  the  rough  board  walls.  You  al 
ways  come  a  little  early  because  the  car  might  be  started 
on  time,  and  there  might  be  a  crowd.  Therefore  you 
always  have  to  wait,  because  it  never  does  start  on  time, 
and  there  never  is  a  crowd.  Local  politics — into  which 
**£  will  not  go — could  explain  why  they  did  not  run  the 
.  icks  two  hundred  yards  farther  and  terminate  them 
at  the  lower  end  of  Siloam  Main  Street.  Strangers 
always  think  it  is  because  there  is  such  a  steep  grade  up 
that  hill.  The  motorman  runs  the  car  at  a  great  rate  of 
speed  from  Barker's  Creek  to  Siloam,  in  summer,  so  that 
he  and  the  conductor  can  have  a  little  extra  time  to  go 
up  the  hill  between  runs,  and  buy  sarsaparilla  and  plug 
tobacco  at  Nathan  Joy's  refreshment  stand.  The  line 
runs  into  the  village  at  the  Barker's  Creek  end,  but  the 
men  perversely  prefer  to  patronize  Nathan.  If  you  are  a 
passenger,  you  wait  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  for  the  motor 
man  and  the  conductor  to  return. 

Madge  Lockerby  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  stone  wall  by 
the  shelter,  looking  unintently  down  at  the  baby  willows 
that  feathered  the  margin  of  the  river.  They  trembled 
and  shook  as  willows  will  in  an  ultraperceptible  breeze. 

127 


LOST  VALLEY 

Madge  fanned  her  burning  face  with  her  handkerchief. 
Then  she  looked  about,  searching  her  solitude,  and  lifting 
her  serge  skirt,  unpinned  the  pocket  of  her  petticoat, 
where  she  had  hidden  her  money.  IJer  left  hand  folded 
over  a  soiled  dollar  bill.  She  put  the  rest  back.  This  was 
in  case  of  need.  In  point  of  fact,  she  doubted  Asa  Cilley's 
evidence,  doubted  that  Lola  had  come  so  far,  doubted, 
above  all,  that  Lola  had  journeyed  to  Barker's  Creek. 
The  child  had  always  been  too  shy :  her  feeble  adventures 
were  all  thrust  on  her  by  Madge.  It  was  incredible  that 
she  should  have  marched  off  to  a  strange  place.  Madge 
rejected  the  idea  of  a  companion,  because  she — like  Moll 
Breen  and  Sarah  Martin,  for  that  matter — could  imagine 
none  that  was  legitimate.  The  longer  she  sat  by  the  end 
of  the  track,  alone  and  discouraged,  the  surer  she  was 
that  Lola  had  not  come  that  way.  She  would  make  in 
quiries  of  the  conductor  when  the  car  came  in — just 
dispose  of  the  wraith  Asa  Cilley  had  evoked — and  then — 
but  she  did  not  know  what  then.  She  took  comfort  in 
realizing  there  was  nothing  she  could  do  until  the  car 
arrived:  it  rested  her.  At  the  same  time,  she  hated  Asa 
Cilley  for  making  her  dally  with  a  clew  that  probably 
was  no  clew  at  all. 

Madge's  mood  of  expressive  anger  had  hardened  into 
a  tight-lipped  austerity,  fitter  for  a  protracted  adventure. 
She  had  got  over  her  momentary  loathing  of  Sarah 
Martin:  she  no  longer  distinguished  her.  The  older 
woman  was  shut  out  of  Madge's  burning  isolation — out 
there  somewhere  (it  didn't  matter)  with  the  Breens  and 
Andrew  Lockerby  and  Asa  Cilley:  "folks."  In  her  sphere 
of  reality  were  only  she  and  Lola,  and  they  had  lost  each 
other.  Through  the  world  of  "folks"  she,  Madge,  would 
roam  until  she  had  found  her  sister.  Youth  and  health 
had  reasserted  themselves  by  this — thanks,  largely,  to 
Sarah  Martin's  treatment  of  the  fevered,  hysteric  creature. 
128 


LOST  VALLEY 

Madge,  refreshed  and  calmed,  was  very  bitter  and  very 
strong.  Her  nerves  consented  to  rest  while  she  waited  for 
the  car. 

It  came  at  last  and  discharged  a  tired  load — parents, 
chiefly,  and  children  brought  home  early  from  the  tawdry 
little  fair.  They  straggled  up  the  hill  to  the  village,  and 
before  the  conductor  could  follow  them  she  caught 
him  by  the  sleeve. 

He  answered  her  questions  civilly  enough.  Madge  was 
looking  very  handsome,  and  that  bitter  shutting-out  of 
"folks"  had  given  her  composure.  She  framed  her  ques 
tions  carefully,  not  to  compromise  Lola.  Neither  pink 
sunbonnet,  nor  pretty  fifteen-year-old  face  had  been  seen 
by  him,  alone  or  in  company.  Yes,  he  remembered  his 
passengers — knew  practically  all  of  'em  by  name  or  by 
sight.  There  wasn't  much  crowd:  Siloam  folks  mostly 
went  over  the  first  days  of  the  fair.  It  was  closing  up 
to-night,  and  'twas  pretty  well  thinned  out  over  there. 
They  were  packing  up  the  exhibits  already.  He  was  sorry 
he  couldn't  help  her  out.  Then  he  ran  up  the  hill,  after 
the  motorman,  to  Nathan  Joy's. 

Madge  decided  to  stay  there  until  the  car  had  started 
back.  Then  she  could  make  sure  that  Lola,  for  the  next 
hour  at  least,  was  not  on  the  road  to  Barker's  Creek. 
Not  that  she  had  ever  thought  she  was.  That  old  fool — 
this  was  Asa  Cilley — saying  he'd  seen  Lola  just  for  the 
sake  of  saying  something!  "Folks."  And  all  the  time 
Lola  was  probably  somewhere  between  Siloam  and  the 
Valley — lost,  perhaps,  crying.  .  .  . 

The  motorman  and  the  conductor  came  back.  A  few 
passengers  arrived.  Madge  watched  them  start,  stolidly 
waiting.  The  bell  clanged,  the  old  car  screeched  along 
the  rails,  it  got  up  speed,  and  dwindled  in  the  long  straight 
distance.  Madge  had  turned  her  back  to  the  tracks  and 
faced  up  the  hill  to  Siloam  Main  Street  when  a  sudden 

129 


LOST  VALLEY 

thought  struck  her.  She  ran  a  few  wild  steps  toward  the 
car — rocking  along,  a  mere  speck,  now — she  called,  she 
cried,  she  waved  her  arms;  in  vain,  as  she  well  knew,  but 
in  that  mood  when  the  will  beats  fists  against  the  brain. 
In  one  flash  she  had  seen  her  folly.  This  conductor  had 
perhaps  just  recently  taken  over:  they  worked  in  shifts, 
of  course.  She  should  have  gone  over  to  Barker's  Creek 
herself,  found  the  man  who  had  been  on  the  run  earlier 
in  the  day,  asked  questions  in  Barker's  Creek,  sought 
Lola  there.  Asa  Cilley  was  not  such  a  fool  as  she— she, 
who  had  not  even  thought  to  ask  the  man  what  time  he 
had  come  on  duty.  But  she  loathed  Asa  Cilley  even  more 
than  before.  "Folks." 

As  she  walked  up  the  hill  to  Nathan  Joy's,  still  clutching 
the  dollar  bill  in  her  perspiring  hand,  she  set  her  nerves 
in  order  and  began  to  plan.  She  had  still  no  veritable 
clew;  she  was  taking  pains  with  paths  that  led  nowhere; 
she  recked  nothing  of  Taddeo.  A  little  breeze  had  sprung 
up  at  the  end  of  the  afternoon,  and  Siloam  was  responding 
to  it.  Voices  were  crisper,  muslin  dresses  dotted  the 
porches,  the  gait  of  the  menfolk  suggested  that  they 
thought  healthily  of  supper  to  come.  "Folks"  were 
normal.  But  Siloam  Street  brought  Madge  no  solution. 
The  spirit  of  adventure,  for  most  of  us,  sinks  with  the  sun. 
With  the  late  afternoon  the  call  of  home  is  strong.  Dusk 
lures  the  wanderer  so  differently  from  dawn.  The  hearth 
calls  maternally;  and  one  thinks  of  sleep  in  a  familiar 
bed.  Even  Madge  remembered,  as  the  sun  declined,  the 
household  she  had  forgotten.  During  the  daylight  she 
might  quest  and  stray,  but  the  interval  of  night  baffled 
her.  Not  that  she  wished,  not  that  she  absolutely  in 
tended,  to  return;  but  she  hardly  knew  what  else  to  do. 
She  could  rush  out  of  the  Valley  when  the  sun  was  high; 
but  at  dusk  habit  resumed  her,  and  she  was  dismayed  to 
be  so  far  from  home.  She  could  think  what  to  do,  how  to 
130 


LOST  VALLEY 

plan,  by  day;  but  the  ways  of  the  nocturnal  universe 
were  unknown  to  her.  "I  don't  know  how  to  look  for  her 
if  it's  dark,"  she  murmured. 

It  occurred  to  her  to  go  to  the  Manns'  and  see  if  Silas 
would  drive  her  over.  But  she  rejected  the  notion  at 
once.  There  was  indeed  the  chance  that  Lola  might  be 
at  home;  but  she  thought  the  chance  very  slight.  Asa 
Cilley's  words  still  mocked  and  troubled  her.  If  she  once 
got  to  the  Valley,  she  might  never  get  away  again.  There 
would  be  Andrew  Lockerby  to  deal  with,  and  it  might  be 
no  easy  matter.  The  more  she  cried  out  inwardly  against 
Asa  Cilley's  report,  the  more  empire  it  had  over  her.  She 
would  have  to  go  to  Barker's  Creek,  to  make  sure  .  .  .  and 
she  couldn't  spend  the  night  in  a  strange  town.  Madge, 
ignorant  of  much,  had  not  yet  taken  the  measure  of  her 
adventure. 

She  stopped  dead  in  her  tracks  before  a  closed  and 
shuttered  house — to  think.  A  deeper  perplexity  only 
infolded  her.  Very  quietly  she  sifted  and  sorted  her  emo 
tions,  trying  to  bring  hard,  clear  sense  to  bear  upon  them. 
The  sum  of  her  tallying  was  that,  unadvised,  she  might 
go  wrong.  Sarah  Martin  had  done  well  to  leave  a  bridge 
that  Madge  could  cross  on.  The  girl  had  not  forgiven  the 
older  woman,  but  her  anger  had  been  transformed  into  a 
different  suffering,  and  her  pride  found  a  way.  "I'd  do 
anything  for  Lola,"  she  reflected,  "and  I  guess  Miss 
Martin  was  sorry  she  acted  so.  I'll  ask  her,  anyway.  I'd 
rather  never  go  back  to  her,  but  if  she'll  help  me,  I 
guess  it's  my  duty  really.  If  I  find  Lola,  I  sha'n't  care. 
Folks  can't  be  expected  to  understand." 

With  dragging  feet,  she  went  back  to  Sarah  Martin's 
house. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

SARAH  MARTIN  had  had  time,  during  Madge's  ab 
sence,  to  think  of  the  girl's  plight.  It  was  not  in  the 
woman  to  sit  idly  cogitating;  yet  she  could  not  give  her 
self  up  to  any  work  that  took  her  whole  attention.  It  is 
a  measure  of  her  real  concern  for  Madge  that  she  turned 
her  back  on  her  spotless  kitchen,  so  full  of  potential  house 
wifery,  and,  with  a  sigh,  gathered  up  some  fine  mending. 
Miss  Martin  was  a  good  needlewoman  but  not  a  passion 
ate  one:  a  needle  gave  her  little  scope  for  the  active  ges 
tures  she  preferred.  But  she  could  think  better  over  the 
miniature  toil  that  busied  only  her  fingers.  And  Madge 
Lockerby's  crisis  would  bear  thinking  about. 

Sarah's  moment  of  unhappiness  had  passed  quickly. 
The  fact  is  that,  though  moved  for  the  time  being  by 
Madge's  outburst,  it  was  not  in  her  to  take  youth  too 
seriously;  her  professional  habit  forbade.  This  trouble 
of  Madge's  would  come  to  a  head,  and  would  pass.  Either 
Lola  would  be  found,  or  she  wouldn't.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  Sarah  Martin,  taking  a  wide,  middle-aged  view  of  the 
matter,  rather  hoped  that  she  wouldn't.  Her  concern 
with  Madge  went  back  very  far — farther  than  Madge 
knew.  Sarah  Martin  had  disapproved  of  her  friend's 
marrying  Jim  Lockerby;  but  she  had  been  faithful  to 
Mary  Fales's  choice,  admitting  to  herself  that  though  such 
things  were  not  for  her,  it  was  natural  that  Mary  should 
have  chosen  the  dangerous  path  of  romance.  When 
Mary's  marriage  had  seemed  to  decline  from  those  heights, 
Sarah  had  still  stood  by — as  loyally  silent  as  Mary  herself. 


LOST  VALLEY 

But  Mary  Fales  had  died;  and  Jim  Lockerby,  degener 
ating  out  of  all  semblance  to  the  eager  bridegroom,  had 
crashed  downward  to  his  own  doom.  Madge  was  left: 
Madge  whom  she  had  always  chosen  to  consider  Mary 
Fales's  daughter,  disregarding  Jim  Lockerby's  paternity. 
She  had  rather  given  Madge  up  of  late — of  necessity, 
indeed.  But  as  she  darned  her  papery  piece  of  ancient 
damask,  she  began  to  wonder  if  this  was  not  the  beginning 
of  a  better  state  of  things.  Madge  would  get  over  her 
temper;  and  if  Lola  had  gone  off  in  the  way  Sarah  Martin 
suspected,  Madge  would  have  in  time  to  come  down  off 
her  high  horse.  Civilization  (in  the  shape  of  Miss  Martin 
and  her  ideals)  could  resume  that  wasted  life  and  make 
something  of  it.  There  was  the  grandmother  left,  bmt 
Miss  Martin  was  shrewd  enough  to  surmise  that  Lola 
had  been  the  one  influence  too  strong  for  her.  The  whole 
miserable  household  took  Madge's  time,  but  only  the 
young  girl  made  any  demand  upon  her  deeper  interest. 

There  may  seem  to  be  an  element  of  cruelty  in  her  thus 
mentally  casting  Lola  on  the  trash  heap,  but  I  think  not. 
No  one  more  resents  a  Lost  Valley  than  the  inhabitants 
of  a  neighboring  Siloam.  There  was  nothing  in  Lola's 
origin  or  Lola's  quality  to  draw  sympathy  from  a  Sarah 
Martin.  It  was  an  insult  to  Mary  Lockerby  that  the  girl 
should  exist;  it  was  an  injury  added  that  the  worthless 
creature  should  absorb  the  life  of  Mary  Lockerby's  own 
daughter.  Madge  was  pouring  the  whole  energy  of  her 
nature  into  a  sieve.  The  sheer  moral  waste  of  it  irritated 
Sarah's  thrifty  soul.  It  was  a  duty  (Sarah  Martin  was  a 
Christian,  not  to  say  a  good  Congregationalist)  to  reclaim 
the  erring;  but  you  couldn't  reclaim  an  idiot.  There  were 
few  points  of  philosophy  on  which  Miss  Martin  and 
Arthur  Burton  would  have  agreed;  perhaps  this  was  the 
only  one. 

We  have  seen  Sarah  Martin  day-dreaming.  But  she 

133 


LOST  VALLEY 

was  a  sensible  woman,  and  when  Madge  returned  to  her, 
she  put  away  her  imaginings  and  applied  her  practical 
wisdom.  This  was  not  a  creature  to  be  easily  managed  . . . 
her  smug  arranging  of  destinies  would  not  do.  She  took 
up  the  fitter  role:  that  of  the  older  woman  who  could 
deal  wisely  with  detail,  who  could  not  see  past  the  middle 
distance,  perhaps,  but  was  certainly  admirable  with  fore 
grounds.  Madge  Loekerby's  spirit  struck  her  like  a  wind 
blowing  from  far  places;  she  had  the  sense  to  bend  her 
head  to  the  blast  and  tidy  up  the  immediate  disorder. 
She  was  a  self-confident  person,  and  perhaps  she  did  not 
wholly  abandon  the  future  as  she  had  seen  it.  But  at  the 
moment  she  left  Madge  free  of  her  secret  purposes.  She 
accepted  Madge's  vision  of  things — out  of  kindness  as  she 
thought,  in  reality  because  she  could  not  help  it. 

They  got  over  the  awkwardness  of  their  parting  by  Sarah 
Martin's  ignoring  it.  She  welcomed  the  girl  cheerfully 
and  threw  herself  at  once  into  Madge's  perplexities. 
The  day-dreaming  had  helped  to  this  end.  She  was  not 
unlike  a  benevolent  spider  who  can  afford  to  weave  and 
weave  and  wait.  Spiders  cannot  deal  with  the  larger 
fauna;  but  this,  again,  she  was  not  to  learn  until  later. 
Madge,  thus  met,  relaxed  into  confidence. 

Miss  Martin  saw  at  once  the  flaw  in  the  girl's  be 
havior:  her  failure  to  discover  what  time  the  conductor 
had  come  on  duty.  If  Lola  had  gone  to  Barker's  Creek, 
it  would  have  been,  in  all  probability,  earlier  than  this 
man  had  taken  over  the  shift.  But  she  would  not  let  the 
girl  blame  herself  unduly. 

"I  don't  believe,  any  more  than  you  do,  Madge,  that 
Lola  went  to  Barker's  Creek.  But  since  Asa  Cilley  had 
to  wag  his  foolish  tongue,  you'd  never  feel  right  unless 
you  found  out.  I'll  go  down  to  the  car  myself  and  see 
this  conductor.  He  can  tell  me  what  time  he  came  on 
duty,  and  then  we'll  see  if  it's  necessary  to  find  the  other 
134 


LOST  VALLEY 

man.  If  it  is,  and  the  other  man  is  in  Barker's  Creek,  we'll 
go  over  together.  Two  heads  are  better  than  one.  And 
I  wouldn't  let  you  go  traipsing  off  at  this  hour  by  yourself, 
anyway.  You  must  be  dead  tired.  We'll  go  out  and  get 
a  bite  to  eat,  and  then  I'll  go  down  to  the  car." 

The  conductor,  as  Sarah  Martin  expected,  had  not 
come  on  until  midafternoon,  and  he  dashed  her  hope  of 
interviewing  his  predecessor  that  night.  He  knew  for  a 
fact  that  Lem  Breed  was  going  down  to  Bartlett's  Mills 
as  soon  as  he  left  his  car.  Had  an  uncle  sick  down  there. 
Lem  wouldn't  be  back  till  past  midnight;  time  to  get  a 
little  sleep  before  he  came  on  at  seven  for  the  first  trip. 
The  young  man  gave  his  information  lavishly,  "taking 
an  interest"  and  anxious  to  save  Miss  Martin  a  vain 
journey  to  Barker's  Creek.  She  shook  her  head  as  she 
rejoined  Madge,  pacing  the  dirt  sidewalk  in  front  of  Nate 
Joy's. 

"We  can't  find  out  till  morning  whether  she  went  to 
Barker's  Creek.  I'd  have  thought  Martha  Bunting 
would  have  seen  her  if  she'd  passed  this  way.  But  she 
declares  she  hasn't.  Maybe  Lola's  safe  at  home  all  this 
time.  That's  the  provoking  thing.  Has  anyone  got  a 
telephone  over  there?" 

Madge  shook  her  head.  There  were  no  telephones  in 
the  Valley.  "I'd  get  Mr.  Mann  or  somebody  to  take  me 
over  to-night — but  I'm  afraid  I'd  never  get  back.  Uncle 
Andrew  must  be  mad  clear  through  at  my  being  away  all 
day.  I  couldn't  face  that  as  well  as  all  the  rest.  You — 
well,  you  just  don't  know,  Miss  Martin." 

Sarah  Martin  shut  her  mind  to  it.  She  did  not  wish  to 
know.  She  would  take  it  for  granted.  She  did  not  speak 
again  until  they  had  reached  her  house. 

"Are  you  hungry?" 

"Why,  we  only  ate  a  little  while  ago.    No,  not  a  mite." 

"Nor  I.     But  we'll  have  some  tea." 
10  135 


LOST  VALLEY 

She  left  Madge  in  the  kitchen  to  watch  the  kettle  and 
make  the  tea,  and  disappeared  upstairs.  When  she  came 
down,  the  tea  was  ready  and  the  cups  were  set.  Miss 
Martin  had  changed  her  chambray  dress  for  a  dark  wool, 
and  wore  a  dark  hat.  She  drank  two  cups  of  tea,  then 
rose. 

"I've  got  your  room  ready,  Madge.  I'm  going  down 
now  to  get  Silas  Mann  to  take  me  over  to  the  Valley. 
You've  got  to  know  if  Lola's  found.  If  she  isn't,  they'd 
better  get  up  a  search  party  over  there.  And  we'll  see 
that  conductor  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  If  she  is,  you 
can  go  back  home  as  soon  as  you've  had  your  breakfast." 

Madge's  gratitude  overflowed  somewhere  within  her. 
"Oh,  Miss  Martin,  you  are  kind.  I'm  sorry  I  spoke  as  I 
did.  But  I  hate  to  have  you  go  over  and  see  uncle.  He 
may  take  it  out  on  you." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  Andrew  Lockerby.  I  guess  he'll 
be  civil  to  Silas  and  me.  If  he  isn't,  I  am  quite  capable 
of  giving  him  a  piece  of  my  mind.  You've  got  too  much 
on  your  shoulders,  Madge,  and  that's  a  fact.  If  he  cut 
up,  it  wouldn't  hurt  him  to  hear  that." 

"Don't  stir  him  up  if  you  can  help  it,"  the  girl  pleaded. 
She  could  not  say  what  she  feared;  she  only  knew  that 
dark  pool  was  best  left  untroubled. 

"You  don't  need  to  bind  me  over  to  keep  the  peace. 
Shall  you  be  lonesome  here  by  yourself?  I  might  get 
Mabel  Benner  over  to  sit  with  you  if  you're  nervous." 

"Nervous?  Oh,  no.  I  shouldn't  think  anyone  would 
ever  be  nervous  in  Siloam.  There  are  people  all  round, 
and  the  street's  lighted.  'Tisn't  like  what  it  would  be  at 
home.  Besides,  I'd  have  to  talk  to  Mabel  Benner,  and 
there  isn't  anything  to  say.  I'd  be  miserable." 

Miss  Martin  nodded.  To  prefer  silence,  on  any  excuse, 
to  speech,  was  perfectly  comprehensible  to  her. 

"I  can't  say  when  I'll  be  back.  But  it  may  be  pretty 
136 


LOST  VALLEY 

late.  You'd  best  go  to  bed,  Madge.  I'll  take  the  front 
door  key.  And  I'll  have  my  lantern." 

"Oh,  no,  I'll  sit  up  for  you.    I  couldn't  sleep." 

"Maybe  not.  But  you  get  your  clothes  off  and  get  into 
bed,  anyway.  You  need  the  rest.  I'll  come  and  tell  you, 
when  I  get  back." 

Miss  Martin  departed  with  her  lantern  and  her  huge 
key,  and  Madge,  going  upstairs  to  the  spare  room,  obeyed 
orders. 

Three  hours  later,  Miss  Martin  mounted  the  stairs  to 
keep  her  promise.  All  was  quiet  in  the  low-eaved  chamber, 
and  she  heard  distinctly  the  regular  respiration  of  sleep. 
Why  should  she  wake  the  girl  to  tell  her  that  Lola  had 
not  been  found,  or  to  expurgate  for  her  Andrew  Lockerby's 
vituperations?  Madge  would  have  to  make  an  early 
start  in  the  morning,  anyway.  If  the  girl  could  sleep, 
let  her.  It  meant  she  was  dog-tired. 

She  turned  to  go  downstairs  to  her  own  bedroom.  But 
the  pathos  of  the  girl  overcome  with  weariness,  for  whom 
more  and  more  weariness  was  steadily  preparing,  made 
her  change  her  mind.  If  Madge  should  wake,  she'd  want 
to  hear.  Miss  Martin  turned  into  another  little  room 
under  the  eaves,  made  up  the  hard  cot  that  it  contained, 
and  laid  herself  down  within  earshot  of  her  protegee. 
She  was  shaken,  herself,  by  her  encounter  with  Andrew 
Lockerby.  Not  because  he  had  frightened  her,  but  be 
cause  it  was  as  bad  as  Madge  had  hinted.  In  the  outer 
purlieus  of  sleep,  where  perspectives  shift  strangely,  it 
seemed  to  her  significant  and  not  a  little  appalling,  that 
Madge  should  have  been  so  right.  It  might  mean  that 
Madge  was  more  right  than  she  about  the  nature  of  Lola's 
flight.  But  she  couldn't  face  that  now.  The  tired  spider 
fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

ELA  crooned  to  herself  happily  as  the  car  sagged 
and  swung  along  the  vicious  roadbed  toward 
Barker's  Creek.  In  the  shelter  by  the  track  she  had 
found  the  debris  of  a  family  lunch,  discarded  by  children 
too  full  of  popcorn  and  molasses  candy  to  care  for  sand 
wiches.  Her  hunger  satisfied,  she  had  taken  courage 
once  more.  Earlier,  she  had  been  near  to  drooping  in 
the  heat  and  weariness  of  her  pursuit,  though  she  had 
several  times  slaked  her  thirst  at  spring  or  brook.  The 
food  cleared  her  poor  brain;  the  faintness  passed;  and 
the  Gleam  dazzled  again.  From  a  covert  of  willows,  she 
had  watched  Giuseppe  and  Taddeo  climb  on  to  the 
Barker's  Creek  car.  She  dared  not  join  them,  but  like  an 
animal  sat  down  to  wait  until  they  should  return  or  some 
means  be  given  her  to  follow.  Giuseppe  had  not  lingered 
in  Siloam.  It  looked  like  bad  business,  and  when  he  heard 
of  the  fair  in  Barker's  Creek,  he  realized  that  was  the  place 
for  him.  Lola  had  stalked  them  by  back  pastures,  not 
daring  to  attempt  Siloam  Main  Street.  Therefore  not 
even  Miss  Bunting  had  seen  Lola,  though  Miss  Bunting 
could  have  told  you  the  color  of  Taddeo's  coat  and  the 
time  he  passed  her  house.  Asa  Cilley  had  seen  her  hover 
ing  near  the  car  track,  because  his  business  had  taken 
him  across  lots.  But  Asa  had  come  that  way  only  after 
Giuseppe  and  the  monkey  had  left  for  Barker's  Creek. 
It  was  neatly  done  on  the  part  of  the  aforementioned 
power. 

Passengers  were  very  few  on  this  trip,  and  the  con- 
138 


LOST  VALLEY 

ductor,  deep  in  gossip  with  a  friend,  put  off  his  fare-col 
lecting  until  they  were  near  the  halfway  point.  It  was 
his  last  trip:  he  was  going  to  Bartlett's  Mills  as  soon  as 
he  arrived — was,  in  fact,  going  to  be  driven  down  in  an 
automobile.  He  was  in  a  good  temper.  When  Lola  told 
him  that  she  had  no  money,  he  had  every  right  to  put  her 
off  the  car,  in  the  middle  of  the  fields.  But  her  look  of 
terror  at  the  suggestion  struck  dismay  to  his  kind  heart. 
A  kid  like  that.  .  .  .  He  reassured  her.  Then  Lola  smiled. 
.  .  .  The  upshot  of  it  was  that  he  paid  her  fare  himself, 
thinking  he  would  give  her  in  charge  to  some  one  at  the 
other  end.  But  at  the  other  end  his  friend  was  waiting 
for  him  with  the  Ford.  He  forgot  about  Lola  until  she 
had  slipped  away  toward  the  music  of  the  merry-go- 
round.  Then  other  preoccupations  took  him. 

The  crowd  was  not  large,  though  thick  enough  to 
frighten  Lola  until  she  found  that  no  one  noticed  her. 
The  grounds  were  full  of  children  and  half -grown  young 
folk,  and  she  slipped  in  and  out  of  the  groups  hunting  for 
Giuseppe.  She  placed  him  at  last,  and  kept  him  well  in 
sight.  If  she  had  had  Madge's  hand  to  hold,  she  would 
have  been  very  happy  with  all  this  gorgeousness  to  look 
at,  these  exciting  sounds  to  hear,  this  gayety  for  her 
nerves  to  respond  to.  Without  that  comfort,  she  was  a 
little  frightened;  but  as  no  one  spoke  to  her,  she  took 
heart  of  grace.  Finally  she  found  a  place  at  the  side  of  the 
field,  not  far  from  the  pitch  Giuseppe  had  chosen  for  him 
self,  where  she  could  rest.  She  grew  drowsy,  and  off  and 
on  dozed. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  day,  the  carnival  ebbed  to  its 
close.  Already  they  were  taking  down  the  merry-go- 
round  and  the  little  Ferris  wheel.  The  rough  buildings 
that  had  held  the  exhibits  were  emptying:  housewives 
packed  up  their  handiwork,  while  their  husbands  drove 
off  the  oxen  and  the  horses.  The  fakers  shouldered  their 

139 


LOST  VALLEY 

wares  and  departed.  The  crowd  reduced  itself  to  members 
of  committees,  and  the  rowdier  youths  and  girls  who 
would  stick  by  till  the  last  flare  was  extinguished  and  the 
last  wagon  creaked  off.  Lola  sat  in  her  bushy  retreat 
with  an  eye  on  Taddeo. 

Giuseppe  was  profoundly  irritated  by  his  ill  luck.  Only 
the  Evil  Eye  could  account  for  it,  and  now  and  then  in 
rage  he  made  the  horns  against  the  unknown  but  surely 
present  malefactor.  His  practiced  eye  told  him  that  he 
was  too  late,  that  the  festival  flush  was  over,  and  that  no 
one  had  any  money  to  fling  away  on  the  commonplace 
delights  of  a  hand  organ  and  a  monkey.  The  other  half 
of  Taddeo  looked  more  than  ever  beyond  his  reach.  He 
had  wandered  into  Lost  Valley,  wasting  a  day  and  a  night, 
when  he  might  have  been  here  gathering  coin.  Des 
perately  he  goaded  Taddeo  to  his  extremest  caperings. 
But  only  a  few  stopped  to  see,  and  they  did  not  pay. 
The  twilight  deepened,  and  the  flares  and  lanterns  made 
little  crazy  channels  of  light  through  the  dusk.  Giuseppe 
moved  up  next  a  hot-dog  stand,  which  was  still  doing  busi 
ness,  and  grinned  vainly  behind  the  radiance  of  its  flare. 
Taddeo,  poised  on  his  shoulder,  took  the  illumination  of 
the  torch.  His  little  gray  face  appeared  lit  with  infernal 
wisdom;  his  caperings  grew  inordinately  grotesque,  and 
his  red  jacket  and  feathered  cap  seemed  the  livery  of  a 
lesser  demon  demonstrating  the  frivolities  of  hell.  Some 
people  stopped  to  stare,  taken,  without  knowing  why, 
by  the  Goya-like  chiaroscuro  and  detail. 

Suddenly,  between  two  blinks  of  the  eye,  Taddeo  leaped 
into  the  arms  of  a  young  girl  and  held  out  his  cap  for 
largesse.  The  monkey's  motion  was  dagger-swift,  and 
the  girl  appeared  from  nowhere  into  the  light.  The  greasy 
flare  that  infernalized  the  monkey  and  his  master  was  a 
mere  footlight  to  Lola's  beauty.  It  kept  the  secrets  that 
the  sun  revealed.  Unnaturally  pale,  she  stood  there  like 
140 


LOST  VALLEY 

a  primitive  saint,  holding  the  monkey  in  her  arms.  Giu 
seppe  stood  dumfounded.  It  was  good  stagecraft:  no 
artist  could  have  bettered  the  effect  of  a  few  sudden, 
spontaneous  motions.  Lola's  heart  was  beating  so  hard 
that  the  mere  sensation  terrified  and  fixed  her.  She  had 
stolen  nearer  and  nearer  in  the  shadows  until  the  last 
movement  was  irresistible;  and  the  monkey's  leap  had 
been  almost  simultaneous  with  the  stretching-out  of  her 
arms.  The  incomprehensible  soul  of  Taddeo  had  ac 
cepted  the  refuge  as  soon  as  the  quick  little  animal  eye 
had  seen  it.  She  stood  there  like  a  Madonna  of  the 
Monkey,  and  the  crowd,  hit  by  the  quality  of  the  vision, 
veered  toward  her  and  her  burden.  Giuseppe  stirred  to 
interfere,  then  stopped,  caught  by  the  inhibitions  of  a 
dozen  Italian  centuries.  But  he  watched  with  a  keenness 
that  would  leave  a  horse-coper  in  the  lurch. 

Before  the  bystanders  stopped  gasping,  Taddeo  doffed 
his  cap  and  held  it  out  to  the  company.  Lola  shifted  her 
arm  to  hold  the  little  body  tighter,  but  stared  straight 
ahead  of  her,  unwinking.  The  coins  flew  into  the  cap, 
and  there  were  dimes — grudged  quarters  even — among 
them,  shining  up  out  of  the  little  heap  of  coppers.  With 
uncanny  grace,  the  monkey  turned  in  Lola's  arms  and 
passed  the  cap  to  Giuseppe,  who  emptied  it  hastily. 
Taddeo  jumped  then  to  Lola's  shoulder,  and  sat  there, 
infinitely  quiet,  his  sad  unfathomable  eyes  fixed  on  the 
hot-dogs  under  the  flare.  He  had  learned  a  certain  se 
quence  of  gestures.  .  .  .  Lola  crossed  her  arms  upon  her 
bosom,  almost  afraid  to  stir,  lest  the  Gleam,  achieved, 
should  forsake  her. 

The  sight  of  a  little  stationary  crowd  had  attracted 
other  stragglers,  who  pushed  in  from  behind.  Giuseppe 
hardly  dared  to  breathe  upon  his  luck,  Crouched  behind 
Lola  and  Taddeo,  he  waited,  in  a  cold  drip  of  perspiration. 
Lola's  cheek  caressed  the  furry  little  body:  she  could  not 

141 


LOST  VALLEY 

see  it,  but  she  would  not  move  lest  the  miracle  be  undone. 
Finally  Taddeo,  as  if  with  a  separate  inspiration  of  his 
own,  swung  down  to  the  perch  of  her  crossed  arms,  and 
held  out  the  professional  cap.  The  coins  brimmed  the 
tiny  receptacle  ...  he  jumped  to  the  ground  and  offered 
it  to  Giuseppe's  stealthy  hand.  .  .  .  Lola  turned  to  look, 
disturbing  the  tableau  still  more  .  .  .  the  dropped  jaws 
relaxed,  and  the  group  shifted  a  little.  They  waited  a 
moment  to  see  what  would  happen,  still  caught;  but 
Giuseppe  took  the  situation  in  hand  and  cut  the  drama 
short.  Once  more  would  be  too  much.  With  true  Latin 
sense  of  form,  he  arrested  the  spectacle  while  it  was  still 
startling.  He  hauled  Taddeo  up  to  sit  on  the  organ  and 
withdrew  into  the  shadow.  Thence  he  watched  Lola  very 
curiously.  People  began  to  drift  away. 

Lola  fell  back  out  of  the  light,  looking  quite  simply  and 
single-heartedly  for  Taddeo.  Since  the  monkey's  spring 
into  her  arms,  she  felt  accepted:  some  of  her  fear  was  gone. 
She  had  dared  greatly  and  been  rewarded.  Her  young 
eyes  descried  them  in  the  shadow:  man,  organ,  and 
monkey  at  rest.  With  a  little  inarticulate  cry  of  pleasure, 
she  sank  down  on  the  ground  beside  the  Italian,  put 
ting  out  a  brave  hand  to  pat  Taddeo.  Giuseppe  did  not 
interfere;  he  was  thinking,  and  feeling  his  lumpy  hoard 
while  he  thought.  Most  of  it  he  pouched  in  some  dirty 
recess  of  his  clothing;  a  few  coins  he  kept  out.  He 
slipped  the  strap  of  the  organ  from  his  shoulder  and 
rested  the  instrument  on  the  ground.  Taddeo  began  to 
chatter,  and  Lola  looked  up  disturbed. 

"You  take-a  care  da  monk'/'  he  said;  and  proceeded 
to  the  hot-dog  stand  a  few  yards  away.  When  he  came 
back,  he  had  food  for  the  three  of  them,  and  they  all  fell  to. 

It  is  hard  to  account  for  Lola's  lack  of  fear  of  Giuseppe, 
timid  as  she  was.  Alone,  he  would  certainly  have  terri 
fied  her.  But  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that,  vaguely 


LOST  VALLEY 

frightened  and  perplexed  though  she  was  by  the  race  that 
peoples  the  earth,  she  made  no  sharp  distinctions.  Except 
for  her  familiars,  one  person  was  very  like  another  to  her. 
A  more  developed  brain  would  have  made  a  context  for 
the  Italian  and  linked  him  to  sources  of  fear  or  mistrust. 
Lola,  who  saw  men  as  trees  walking,  did  not  go  so  far. 
Giuseppe  was  to  her  only  an  adjunct  to  Taddeo.  The 
monkey  was  the  visible  god.  This  divine  creature  had 
leaped  into  her  arms  and  confirmed  her  faith.  If  it  were 
fit  and  seemly,  one  might  almost  say  that  Lola  had  re 
ceived  her  sacrament.  Her  delight,  at  least,  was  hah* 
awe.  She  forgot  about  Madge,  whom  she  had  missed  for 
a  moment,  half  whimperingly,  in  the  impinging  crowd. 
The  man  she  thought  of  rather  as  Taddeo 's  servant  than 
his  master — some  one  privileged  to  carry  the  monkey,  and 
feed  it,  and  make  music  for  it  to  dance  to.  Full-fed,  and 
very  happy  with  Taddeo  chumping  and  scratching  be 
side  her,  she  stretched  her  limbs  on  the  coarse  grass,  look 
ing  forward,  with  no  inhibitions,  to  the  fulfilled  promise 
of  delight.  The  Gleam  was  very  steady  above  the  Barker's 
Creek  fair-ground. 

The  Italian,  a  world  away  from  her  mentally,  was  con 
sidering  very  rapidly  while  he  ate  and,  later,  smoked  a 
dust-heap  cigarette.  His  instincts  were  much  more  com 
plex  than  hers,  and  his  brain  made  up  in  activity  what  it 
lacked  in  scope.  He  could  see  that  Lola  was  not  quite 
normal,  but  thought  none  the  less  of  her  for  that.  It  was 
hard  that  he  must  separate  himself  from  his  luck;  he  was, 
however,  ready  to  do  it  brutally.  It  was  essential  that 
Giuseppe's  alibi  (he  knew  the  thing  very  well  if  not  the 
word)  be  established.  The  hot-dog  man  was  now  packing 
up  his  belongings  and  preparing  to  leave  his  stand; 
everyone  else  had  departed. 

Giuseppe  knew,  to  the  last  shred  of  disdain,  the  general 
opinion  concerning  his  race  and  profession.  He  had  no 

143 


LOST  VALLEY 

mind  to  go  to  jail  for  abduction.  That  he  was  in  no  wise 
responsible  for  this  apparition  would  be  difficult  to  explain. 
He  got  up,  strapped  the  organ,  with  Taddeo  atop,  on  his 
back,  and  stayed  the  sausage  man  who  was  about  to 
leave  the  grounds. 

"You  show  me  barn?  I  sleep."  His  gestures  and 
mobile  face  helped  out  the  words. 

The  man  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  know  this  place. 
I  only  come  for  the  fair.  I'm  in  a  boarding  house  down 
by  the  river.  Does  the  girl  sleep  in  a  barn?"  he  asked 
curiously. 

Giuseppe  raised  his  encumbered  hands  to  heaven.  "I 
not  know.  I  never  see  da  girl  before.  She  belong  here?" 
With  eyebrows  and  lips  he  contrived  an  infinite  wonder 
and  ignorance.  "Da  monk',  he  find  her  here.  She  go 
home  now.  I  looka  barn." 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  was  none  of  his 
business.  He  was  going  up  the  valley  by  the  first  train  in 
the  morning  to  reach  a  fair  in  the  next  county.  "  I  dunno, 
Joe.  I'm  a  stranger  here."  He  moved  off  into  the  dusk. 

Giuseppe,  bowed  under  the  weight  of  the  organ,  walked 
slowly  across  the  field  to  the  rude  buildings  where  the  ex 
hibits  had  been  housed.  He  did  not  once  turn  to  look  for 
Lola,  and  was  grateful  that  she  was  not  within  sight.  If 
he  shut  himself  up  somewhere  with  Taddeo  and  went  to 
sleep,  she  would  drift  off  to  her  own  place,  and  he  would 
be  rid  of  her.  Other  visions  and  impulses  were  by  this 
time  contending  with  prudence  in  Giuseppe's  brain,  but 
prudence  still  prevailed.  He  hated  jails  and,  except  for 
an  occasional  accident  of  drink,  kept  out  of  them  with 
beautiful  consistency. 

The  air  breathed  soothingly  after  the  hot  day.  It  moved 
ineffably  over  the  ragged  and  trampled  field.  Night  hid 
the  debris  of  the  fair,  and  a  middle-aged  moon,  rising 
discreetly,  showed  all  contours  as  half  unreal.  The  build- 
144 


LOST  VALLEY 

ings  made  little  soft  masses  in  the  dim  light,  and  the 
straggling  background  of  woods  solidified  itself  into  sheer 
gloom.  The  hour  was  peaceful.  Giuseppe  longed  with 
every  nerve  in  his  ill-shaped  body  to  count  his  money  and 
to  sleep.  He  tried  the  door  of  the  "hall"  where  the 
quilts  and  spreads  had  been  displayed  during  the  day. 
It  was  locked.  So  with  the  next  structure.  The  dancing 
pavilion  was  open  to  the  four  winds.  Giuseppe  limped 
down  the  line  to  the  ruder  shacks.  He  found  one  open, 
and  hoisting  himself,  the  organ,  and  Taddeo  inside,  he 
shut  the  rough  door  behind  him.  The  place  was  small 
and  quite  empty  except  for  a  pine-board  counter.  Before 
shutting  himself  in,  he  looked  obliquely  across  the  fair 
ground,  swimming  in  moonlit  shadow.  In  the  distance  he 
saw  a  pale  shape  that  might  almost  have  been  mist  rising 
from  the  ground.  Then  it  passed  behind  a  building,  and 
he  slammed  the  door  to,  very  softly.  He  was  rid  of  her. 
So  indeed  he  might  have  been — who  can  say? — but  for 
cupidity.  In  all  that  limping  progress  he  had  been  won 
dering  intolerably  how  much  money  Taddeo 's  twice-filled 
cap  had  brought  him.  He  had  not  wanted  to  count  it 
before  the  crowd,  but  he  could  not  sleep  until  he  knew. 
He  removed  the  organ  and  rested  it  on  the  floor,  then 
drew  from  a  little  roll  strapped  to  the  top  an  indescrib 
able  woolen  scarf,  which  he  made  into  a  nest  for  Tad 
deo.  With  lurchings  and  twistings  he  divested  him 
self  of  a  much-folded,  dirty  waistband,  treasury  of  many 
oddments:  matches,  a  candle  end,  a  tin  pill  box  half 
full  of  snuff,  and  a  bandanna  handkerchief  with  a  lump 
tied  into  one  corner — his  money.  Giuseppe  knew  the  feel 
of  our  currency  almost  as  well  as  the  look  of  it;  but  he 
had  a  prejudice  against  Canadian  money,  and  he  wanted 
light  to  be  sure  how  well  he  had  been  served.  He  did  not 
notice  a  tiny  opening  high  up  in  the  boarded  wall  of  the 
booth — too  small,  indeed,  to  be  glazed.  It  was  large 

145 


LOST  VALLEY 

enough,  though,  to  draw  the  candlelight  to  a  point  and 
hold  it  there  firm  in  the  darkness:  just  a  prick  of  yellow 
on  the  night.  Not  so  much  as  would  have  served  for 
Leander;  but  enough  to  serve  for  Lola  Lockerby,  who 
found  it  a  veritable  beacon,  and  lay  down  to  rest  against 
the  back  wall  of  a  little  open  booth,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
Lilliputian  glow,  until  she  fell  quietly  asleep. 

Giuseppe  spread  the  handkerchief  on  the  floor,  and 
sorted  the  coins  swiftly  with  his  gnarled  fingers.  It  made 
a  good  many  lire  when  it  was  counted  up.  Giuseppe  was 
not  yet  enough  Americanized  to  count  in  dollars.  He  was 
a  very  humble  person,  to  whom  cents  sufficed — until  they 
grew  to  lire.  One  hundred  and  twenty-five  lire  for  the 
other  half  of  Taddeo.  ...  If  every  day  were  like  this  day, 
by  Michaelmas  Taddeo  could  be  his.  .  .  .  He  groaned. 
Never  had  there  been  such  a  day.  He  had  heard  people 
speak  of  another  fair,  thirty  miles  away.  Three  days  like 
this,  and  he  would  have  a  fifth  of  the  price,  with  allowance 
besides  for  food.  And  there  were  other  fairs — and  others 
— before  summer  waned.  Santa  Maria!  it  was  a  great 
country.  A  man  who  owned  two  halves  of  a  monkey  was 
made.  With  a  sudden  solicitude  he  laid  the  dirty  waist 
band  over  Taddeo  for  a  coverlet. 

But  Giuseppe  did  not  delude  himself  as  to  the  source  of 
his  luck.  It  was  the  fair  girl,  holding  Taddeo  in  her  arms, 
still  as  a  saint,  who  had  wrung  the  money  from  the  bored 
crowd.  If  she  could  stand  with  Taddeo  in  market  place 
after  market  place,  then  in  a  few  short  months  his  fortune 
would  be  vast.  Giuseppe  chewed  his  fingers  in  concen 
trated  thought.  According  to  his  strength,  he  sum 
moned  philosophy  to  rout  the  vision  of  the  girl  eternally 
holding  Taddeo,  eternally  procuring  for  him  heaps  of  coin. 
She  had  not  seemed  to  notice  the  money.  Only  think  of 
that!  Did  it  not  seem  to  mark  her  as  more  than  human? 
Superstition  was  Giuseppe's  good  friend.  Very  stealthily 
146 


LOST  VALLEY 

it  linked  hands  with  his  desire,  pointed,  and  urged,  a 
path.  * 

On  the  one  hand,  were  the  commonplace  interpretations : 
a  young  girl,  lured  by  the  monkey  and  the  organ,  who  had 
followed  him;  a  young  girl  not  quite  like  other  young 
girls  (Giuseppe  touched  his  forehead  with  a  dirty  fore 
finger),  innocent  and  careless.  But  a  young  girl  whose 
friends  would  raise  a  hue  and  cry  after  her,  and  whom, 
therefore,  he  had  done  his  best,  with  such  poor  publicity 
as  the  sausage  man  afforded,  to  evade. 

On  the  other  hand,  Lola  was  very  beautiful,  and 
wrapped  in  mystery.  The  crowd  had  not  been  so  wonder- 
struck  as  the  organ  grinder,  when  Lola  appeared  from 
nowhere,  holding  Taddeo  in  her  arms.  It  had  not  begun 
to  appreciate  as  he  did  the  quality  of  the  apparition. 
Giuseppe  was  not  a  religious  man :  he  was  sunk  far  below 
the  crude  pieties  of  his  kind.  But  he  was  Latin  through 
all  the  submerged  and  unmixed  generations  of  his  in 
heritance,  and  he  could  certainly  have  given  points  on 
visual  beauty  to  the  American  police j  which  is  largely  of 
Irish  extraction  and  congenitally  unsesthetic.  Nor  had 
even  Giuseppe  quite  forgotten  the  village  church  of  his 
childhood,  with  the  paintings  surrounding  the  apse.  He 
knew  the  look  of  a  saint,  per  Bacco!  The  girl  and  Santa 
Lucia,  whose  altar  was  next  the  door  of  the  sacristy,  they 
were  pin  for  pin  alike.  Santa  Lucia  might  have  appeared, 
to  work  a  miracle  in  his  behalf.  He  could  not  honestly 
say  that  he  had  deserved  celestial  intervention,  but  his 
grandmother  had  wasted  all  her  centesimi  in  candles  for 
many  years.  One  might  say — Giuseppe's  bosom  swelled 
— that  their  family  had  been  distinguished  by  a  cult  of 
Santa  Lucia. 

All  this  went  not  too  precisely  and  crudely  through 
his  mind;  rather,  it  passed  in  vague  little  waves  of  emo 
tion — shot  with  reminiscence.  Giuseppe  had  been  genu- 

147 


LOST  VALLEY 

inely  smitten  with  wonder,  and  Lola  in  the  torchlight  was 
like  nothing  he  had  seen  since  his  Catholic  infancy.  The 
fact  that  came  nearest  being  evidence  was  her  unearthly 
indifference  to  money,  to  him,  to  everything  except 
Taddeo,  whom  she  had  regarded  with  a  benign  and  simple 
smile.  An  emissary  of  the  saint  perhaps:  it  is  so  well 
known  that  godliness  may  lodge,  with  peculiar  comfort, 
in  a  half-wit.  Nothing,  at  all  events,  could  quite  eliminate 
the  savor  of  miracle  from  the  event.  The  Italian  twisted 
and  turned,  and  groaned  and  whispered  explosively  to 
himself. 

The  candle  guttered  out,  hissing,  and  by  the  last  flickers 
he  gathered  the  money  and  stowed  it  away  again  some 
where  between  his  skin  and  the  outer  air.  The  mere  mo 
tion  roused  him  a  little  from  his  semiecstatic  reverie. 
But  he  was  keener  than  ever  for  the  other  half  of  Taddeo, 
which  had  been  so  plausibly  within  reach.  He  would  like, 
he  thought,  to  know  whether  that  girl  had  gone  home,  or 
was  still  hanging  about.  It  was  not  a  dream :  the  money 
lay  heavy  against  his  ribs.  But  he  could  not  give  thanks 
and  let  it  pass.  The  more  luck  you  have,  the  more  you 
want.  Who  ever  did  let  luck  go  by  without  clutching?  .  .  . 
Pained  by  his  simple  desires,  he  stepped  warily  out  of 
the  booth,  closing  the  door  softly  behind  him.  A  little 
stroll  in  the  moonlight  before  sleep — yes,  that  was  all.  But 
his  eyes  roved  hotly  among  the  shadows,  and  he  kept  a 
wavering,  batlike  course  close  to  the  shacks  and  pavilions. 

Of  course,  he  reflected,  she  was  a  girl — who  had  gone 
home.  He  must  be  grateful  and  sleep  on  that  gratitude. 
But  suppose  it  should  be  the  intention  of  the  saint  to  aid 
him  further?  Suppose  the  saint,  who  knew  . . .  was  mind 
ful  of  his  grandmother,  and  remembered  that  he  had  once> 
when  the  monkey  was  ill,  burned  a  candle  in  the  chapel 
of  the  Italian  Mission?  Easy  money  had  corrupted  Giu 
seppe,  as  it  corrupts  so  many  of  his  betters;  but  there  was 
148 


LOST  VALLEY 

embedded  one  priceless  little  grain  of  honest  wonder  in 
his  greedy  mind.  He  stumbled  round  the  corner  of  the 
shack  in  which  Lola  lay  unprotected  from  the  moonlight, 
and  discovered  her,  with  a  hissing  intake  of  his  breath. 
He  crept  nearer  her,  twisting  grotesquely  in  his  effort  to 
be  noiseless.  She  stirred  a  little,  and  he  lay  down  on  the 
ground  and  wriggled  away  on  his  belly  slowly,  like  a 
wounded  snake,  until  he  reached  the  back  of  the  booth, 
where  a  wall  could  hide  him  from  her.  Then  he  crept 
back  to  his  own  place,  the  blood  beating  in  his  brain. 

She  was  there;  she  had  not  gone  home;  she  had  lain 
down  to  sleep  near  him  and  the  monkey.  Ergo  she  had 
followed  him.  Ergo  she  was  sealed  to  his  ambition,  dedi 
cated  to  the  other  hah*  of  Taddeo.  It  would  be  madness 
— perhaps  irreverence — to  throw  away  his  opportunity. 
If  she  was  a  runaway  girl,  there  was  no  search  for  her — 
yet;  though  presently  there  might  be.  One  ought  to  get 
away  before  daylight — and  not  to  the  Barker's  Creek 
station.  If  she  was  sent  by  the  saint,  then  why  lose  time? 
There  is  no  telling  how  many  wild  guesses  shot  through 
Giuseppe's  mind  before  he  slept.  He  pretty  well  boxed 
the  compass  of  possibilities.  No  solution,  no  conviction, 
blessed  him:  but  he  fell  asleep  on  an  intention.  An  in 
tention  that  showed  due  respect  both  to  Heaven  and  to 
the  police. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

AT  noon,  Madge  Lockerby  and  Sarah  Martin  were 
still  pacing  the  platform  of  the  dusty  little  station 
at  Barker's  Creek.  The  train  was  twenty  minutes  late, 
and  might  delay  a  half  hour  longer.  No  one  could  inform 
them.  The  stuffy  waiting-room  had  grown  intolerable, 
and,  as  they  had  said  everything  there  was  to  say,  there 
seemed  no  point  in  prolonging  privacy  at  the  cost  of 
stifling.  It  was  Miss  Martin  who  seemed  nervous,  who 
stopped  every  now  and  then  to  scrutinize  a  time-table,  to 
wipe  her  face  with  a  folded  pocket  handkerchief,  or  to 
peer  absently  through  the  baggage-room  windows.  Madge 
Lockerby  grew  firmer  with  each  discouragement  she  met. 
Now,  baffled,  on  the  track  of  a  mere  conjecture,  the  goal 
so  faint  a  gleam  that  eyes  could  scarce  descry  it,  she  was 
calm  and  confident — not  of  success,  perhaps,  but  of  her 
self.  She  had  risen  to  the  full  stature  of  her  duty.  Even 
if  Madge  Lockerby  could  have  known  the  wild  medley  of 
experience  ahead  of  her — if  one  flash  of  apocalyptic  vision 
could  have  shown  her  the  particolored  scene  she  was  to 
tread — I  think,  on  the  morrow  of  her  first  day  of  search, 
she  would  have  smiled,  unshaken.  The  stored  strength 
of  youth,  the  untapped  reservoir,  was  there  to  be  drawn 
on;  and  she  held  the  key.  She  was  conscious  of  holding 
it.  All  unprepared  and  ignorant  as  she  was,  she  had 
strange  comfort  in  knowing  that  she  must  now  expend, 
not  repress,  her  latent  force.  Madge  was  afraid  of  a 
thousand  things  on  her  own  account;  but  it  was  a  delicious 
fear.  With  Lola  gone,  the  one  intolerable  thing  would 
150 


LOST  VALLEY 

have  been  not  to  be  pursuing  her.  Sarah  Martin  mar 
veled  at  her,  giving  her  credit  perhaps  for  more  Spartan 
courage  than  she  possessed,  but  she  expressed  her  admira 
tion  only  in  a  renewed  fussiness  over  necessary  detail. 

"You  took  those  things  I  laid  out  on  the  dresser?" 

"Yes,  thank  you." 

"If  you  want  more  money,  you'll  let  me  know?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Martin." 

"I  declare,  Madge,  I  hate  to  have  you  go  off  this  way 
— not  knowing  for  certain  where  to  go.  About  that  fair 
in  Somerset:  it's  only  a  guess.  The  folks  that  saw 
Lola  only  saw  her  here,  and  the  ticket  agent  says  no 
Italian  has  been  in  the  station  since  he  opened  up  this 
morning." 

"It's  true,  Miss  Martin,  that  I  don't  know  anything. 
But  we've  searched  all  through  Barker's  Creek.  She's  not 
here.  And  she  was  here  last  evening.  If  she  hadn't  gone 
with  him,  she'd  have  been  round  somewhere,  trying  to  get 
home.  We  know  she  came  on  the  car,  and  we  know  she 
didn't  go  back  on  the  car.  I  think  she's  followed,  just  as 
she  must  have  followed  out  of  the  Valley.  I'm  glad  you 
spoke  to  Judge  Atwood.  He'll  have  people  on  the  look 
out  round  here.  Maybe  it's  crazy  to  seek  her  in  Somerset; 
but  I've  got  to  try,  and  I  don't  know  where  else  the  man 
would  be  likely  to  make  for.  You  see,  he  didn't  stop  in 
Siloam:  he  came  right  over  here  to  make  some  money 
at  the  fair.  If  he'd  heard  of  the  fair  in  Somerset,  he'd 
probably  go  on  there.  They  said  most  of  the  folks  who 
sell  things  had  moved  on  to  Somerset." 

"I  see  what  you  mean,  Madge.  But  it's  dreadful  to 
have  you  go  off  like  this  on  a  wild-goose  chase.  If  you 
don't  find  her  in  Somerset,  will  you  promise  to  come 
straight  back  to  me  in  Siloam?" 

Madge  shook  her  head.     "I  can't  promise  anything, 

Miss  Martin.     There's  no  knowing  what  may  come  up 

11  151 


LOST  VALLEY 

to  lead  me  on  somewhere  else.  I'll  search  for  Lola  until 
I  die." 

"You  haven't  money  enough  to  last  a  lifetime."  Sarah 
Martin  reasserted  herself  feebly. 

"I'm  strong." 

That  was  all,  yet  even  Sarah  Martin  realized  that  Madge 
had  expressed  herself  with  completeness. 

The  train  came  in  sight.  Madge  clutched  Miss  Martin's 
little  traveling-bag  closer  to  her  and  folded  the  fingers 
of  her  left  hand  more  firmly  round  her  ticket.  She  braced 
herself  for  the  snorting  arrival  of  the  engine.  As  it  puffed 
and  hissed  and  groaned  to  a  full  stop,  Miss  Martin  gripped 
her. 

"Madge,  aren't  you  going  to  send  any  word  home?  I 
told  your  uncle  you'd  be  back  to-day." 

A  strange  smile  curved  Madge's  lips.  The  other  woman, 
deafened  by  the  noise  of  steam  and  voices  and  hurrying 
feet,  bent  her  ear  to  the  young  girl's  mouth.  "I  haven't 
anything  to  say  to  uncle.  He  wouldn't  understand.  You 
can  tell  him  what  you  want  to."  The  words  came  smoothly 
to  Sarah — a  mere  whisper — out  of  that  mysterious  smile. 
Sarah  ran  along  the  platform  to  exchange  final  glances. 
But  the  last  she  saw  of  Madge  was  a  slim  back  turned  to 
the  station  platform.  Madge  was  looking  out  of  the  win 
dow  on  the  other  side.  Her  spirit  had  already  flown 
forward  to  the  next  stage. 

"Humph ! "  said  Miss  Martin.  "It  beats  all  how  young 
folks  will  carry  on."  But  she  found  that  her  glasses 
needed  wiping. 

It  was  not  only  refreshment  of  sleep  and  zest  of  the 
new-washed  day  that  had  released  Madge  Lockerby  from 
petty  fears  and  given  her  a  larger  and  more  vital  courage. 
Nor  was  it  the  mere  joy  of  irresponsible  adventure  that 
quickened  her — though  sleep,  and  fresh  sunlight,  and 
spirited  youth  all  had  their  part.  By  unseen,  sure  proc- 
152 


LOST  VALLEY 

esses,  her  very  soul  was  being  kneaded  within  her;  the 
leaven  of  her  destiny  was  working.  She  could  not  have 
measured  or  described  the  subtle  changes;  she  knew  only 
that,  moment  by  moment,  the  horizon  lifted,  and  that  with 
each  new  glimpse  of  distance  she  seemed  to  take  an  easier 
stride  ahead.  She  knew  now — and  how  she  knew  she 
could  not  have  told  you — that  she  was  called  to  something 
bigger  and  more  various  than  she  had  ever  dreamed  would 
come  her  humble  way.  She  felt — for,  again,  she  could 
not  know — that  tragedy  would  lie  about  her  steps :  Madge 
was  no  optimist.  But  it  would  not  be  the  passive  tragedy 
of  corruption. 

I  do  not  know  at  what  hour  Madge  had  seized  the  true 
psychology  of  Lola's  flight.  But,  from  the  moment  she 
knew  of  Lola's  association  with  the  Italian,  her  mind 
never  swerved  from  the  right  track.  Not  for  an  instant 
did  she  dally  with  the  sort  of  inference  Moll  Breen  would 
have  made.  She  remembered  Lola's  rapture  over  Taddeo; 
and  she  traced  the  rapture,  with  no  hesitation,  to  its  right 
source.  The  man  might  have  tried  to  coax  Lola  away, 
but  it  was  the  monkey  that  had  lured  her.  It  may  have 
been  love,  or  it  may  have  been  the  insight  that  comes 
with  love;  certain  it  is  that  Madge  never  for  one  moment 
did  injustice  to  Lola's  passion.  She  made  no  mistake  as 
between  magnets.  Naturally,  Madge  Lockerby's  fine  con 
science  wrought  upon  that  knowledge  in  one  predestined 
way.  It  was  she  who  had  called  Lola  from  the  pasture  to 
see  the  monkey  dance;  it  was  she  who,  having  refused  to 
take  the  child  to  the  circus,  had  snatched  at  this  poor 
substitute — less  for  the  mere  sake  of  pleasing  Lola  than 
to  give  herself  moral  ease  by  pleasing  her.  She  had 
been  selfish;  she  had  not  wanted  a  noisy,  tiresome  day 
at  the  circus;  she  had  preferred  her  sentimental  trance 
and  her  ritual  hours  in  the  hidden  glade.  The  story 
wound  back  to  Arthur  Burton.  .  .  .  The  stock  of  which 

153 


LOST  VALLEY 

Madge  Loekerby  is  bred  does  not  blame  others  until  it 
has  got  through  blaming  itself,  and  Madge  had  not  yet 
reached  the  point  of  shifting  the  burden.  She  took  it  as 
a  black  fault  in  herself  to  have  let  the  image  of  him  in 
terfere  with  her  plain  duty.  Her  selfishness  had  been  the 
spring  of  it  all. 

Curiously  enough,  though  Madge  was  bound  for  Somer 
set,  she  had  no  real  expectation  of  finding  Lola  there. 
She  did  not  distrust  her  judgment  so  much  as  her  luck. 
It  was  as  if  she  divined  that  to  follow  the  right  clew  was 
not  enough;  that  other  forces  were  at  work  to  frustrate 
ratiocination.  She  knew  that  Somerset  fair  was  the 
Italian's  most  probable  goal,  and  that  it  was  Sarah 
Martin's  pity  (and  who  knew  how  many  dark  unexpressed 
suspicions?)  rather  than  Sarah  Martin's  intelligence  that 
made  the  spinster  attempt  to  dissuade  her  from  hastening 
to  that  town.  She  did  not  know  of  Giuseppe's  fall  in  the 
underbrush  and  his  strained  ankle  that  would  delay  him 
for  a  day,  and  make  her  arrival  and  her  inquiries  pre 
mature.  But  she  sensed  the  power  at  work  against  her. 
Her  hopes  were  long  hopes,  not  short  ones.  She  hoped  to 
find  Lola  in  Somerset,  yes;  she  alighted  mechanically  at 
Bartlett's  Mills,  to  wait  for  the  Somerset  train.  But  her 
eyes  were  focused  to  a  much  more  distant  horizon.  I 
doubt  if  Madge  Loekerby  could  have  endured  the  vexing 
succession  of  disappointments,  the  constant  slipping  back 
on  the  verge  of  arrival,  that  were  to  be  hers,  had  she  not 
always  felt,  with  vivid  unreason  yet  with  secret  sureness, 
that  her  goal  was  set  very  far  ahead.  Even  when  she  was 
most  convinced,  she  did  not  run  to  greet  success;  and  to 
day,  as  she  approached  Somerset,  at  the  heart  of  her 
eagerness  was  a  cold  suspicion  that  her  journeying  had 
only  begun,  that  Somerset  was  but  an  early  stage.  If  she 
seemed  indifferent  to  kin  and  friends,  it  was  because  she 
had  no  strength  to  spare  for  them.  Lola  needed  the  whole 
154 


LOST  VALLEY 

of  her.  She  prayed  to  God  that  the  task  might  be  short; 
but  she  was  none  the  less  preparing  herself  for  an  intermi 
nable  endeavor.  She  could  bear  anything,  she  felt,  if  she 
might  have  the  sole  direction  of  her  strength.  If  she  had 
had  to  sit  at  home  and  tend  Granny,  with  Lola  afield  in 
a  terrible  world — that  would  indeed  have  been  intolerable. 
She  shuddered  slightly  at  the  thought  of  it.  It  w^as  the 
complete  break  with  her  past  existence  that  saved  her. 
So  pagan  youth  and  puritan  conscience  ran  the  gamut 
within  her,  and  her  strength  gathered  slowly  to  grasp  the 
pattern  traced. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

SARAH  MARTIN  woke,  one  Saturday  in  mid-Septem 
ber,  with  the  sense  upon  her  of  an  undefendable 
calamity.  The  sun  dappled  the  spaces  of  her  prim  bed 
room,  doing  its  best  with  the  scant  cherry  furniture  and 
hooked  rugs.  At  the  gaunt  uncurtained  four-poster  even 
the  sun  had  to  give  up  coquetry.  Sarah  Martin's  high- 
necked  nightgown  did  not  boast  even  a  frill  of  edging; 
her  capable  hands  emerged  from  the  coarse  cambric  sleeves 
as  brown  as  the  paws  of  Red  Riding-Hood's  wolf;  the 
short  scant  braid  of  graying  hair  that  lay  over  one  shoulder 
was  an  anachronism — a  "pigtail,"  in  short.  All  that 
whiteness  of  linen  and  cambric,  blued  a  little  too  much 
in  the  wash  by  Jim  Smart's  wife,  made  the  most  un 
becoming  background  for  Miss  Martin's  angular  and 
aging  face.  But  the  sun  that  took  away  all  grace  ac 
centuated  the  lean  strength  and  alertness  of  her  face. 

It  was  not  Sarah's  way  to  dally  with  the  morning  hour. 
Now  she  stretched  herself  before  rising;  not  for  any  delight 
of  laziness,  but  for  sheer  hesitation  to  face  the  fatal  round. 
Last  Saturday  there  had  been  professional  duties,  it  being 
the  first  week  of  school.  This  Saturday  there  was  no 
excuse  for  so  competent  a  teacher  as  Sarah  Martin.  Her 
holiday  lay  free  before  her.  And  there  was  the  Sabbath 
to  recuperate  in. 

Miss  Martin  was  too  wide  awake  even  to  yawn,  and 
finally  she  got  out  of  bed  with  a  brisk  movement  and  pro 
ceeded  to  dress.  She  made  up  for  her  moments  of  hesita 
tion  by  extra  rapidity  and  sureness  of  gesture.  Sarah 
156 


LOST  VALLEY 

getting  her  breakfast  and  setting  her  house  in  order 
would  have  been  a  model  for  a  class  in  efficiency.  "  Speed 
ing  up  "  could  not  decently  go  farther.  She  cleared  away 
her  breakfast  dishes  and  swept  her  spotless  parlor.  It  was 
her  day  for  baking,  but  she  had  not  time.  Unconsciously 
she  grimaced  a  little  at  the  thought  of  having  to  buy  bread 
and  cake  at  the  store.  Sarah  was  in  her  way  an  epicure. 
But  what  she  had  to  do  could  not  wait  on  household 
processes.  To-day  the  creature  of  reason  stamped  upon 
the  housewife.  Sarah  left  her  own  door,  a  little  stiff  and 
solemn  in  her  second-best  clothes,  an  avowed  diplomat 
and  woman  of  the  world.  She  hated  her  self-imposed 
task,  but  I  think  she  liked  it  the  better  for  its  very  hard 
ness.  The  most  vexed  question  of  boundaries  could  not 
have  preoccupied  a  Foreign  Office  more  than  her  errand 
to  Lost  Valley  preoccupied  her.  She  was  not  precisely  an 
ambassador,  either:  the  initiative  was  her  own.  That, 
somehow,  made  for  dignity.  She  held  her  head  well  up 
as  she  stalked  down  Siloam  Main  Street  in  quest  of  Si 
Mann. 

Si  proved  amenable  to  her  desires,  and  she  passed  on  to 
Benner's.  Mrs.  Benner  was  dispensing  the  baker's  stock, 
and  she  made  no  secret  of  her  surprise. 

"Land  sakes,  Miss  Martin,  you  don't  often  patronize 
this  counter." 

"I  should  hope  not,  Mrs.  Benner.  I've  no  opinion  of 
women  who  are  too  lazy  to  do  their  own  baking.  But  I 
have  some  business  to  attend  to,  and  Saturday  is  my  only 
free  day  now.  I'll  take  two  loaves  and  a  can  of  baked 
beans." 

"Mrs.  Miller  brings  in  the  home-baked  ones  for  sale 
now  on  Saturdays.  Shall  I  save  you  a  quart  of  those?" 

Miss  Martin  looked  at  her  suspiciously.  "Clarissa 
Miller?" 

"Yes." 

157 


LOST  VALLEY 

"  I  guess  I  prefer  a  can.  They  do  everything  in  the  most 
sanitary  way  in  these  big  factories,  I'm  told." 

Mrs.  Benner  flushed  a  little.  Clarissa  Miller  was  her 
second  cousin  by  marriage.  "We  haven't  had  any  com 
plaints,  Miss  Martin.  Most  people  like  home-baked 
better.  The  minister's  wife  says  it's  a  great  comfort  to 
her.  She  don't  believe  much  in  canned  goods." 

"Well,  she's  had  experience  enough,  I  guess.  She 
ought  to  know.  Those  jumbles  come  from  Bartlett's 
Mills,  too?" 

"Yes.    They  just  come  over  fresh." 

"I'll  take  a  dozen.  No,  not  the  frosted  ones.  Frosting's 
one  thing  I  like  to  see  made  myself." 

"  I  s'pose  if  it  came  in  a  can  it  would  be  all  right."  Mrs. 
Benner  seemed  to  meditate. 

Miss  Martin  remembered  that  she  was  a  diplomat,  and, 
as  such,  lifted  above  mere  local  problems.  She  smiled 
austerely.  "Look  here,  Mrs.  Benner,  I'm  not  criticizing. 
When  you're  brought  to  buying  from  a  baker,  you've  no 
call  to  criticize.  But  I'm  an  old  maid,  you  know,  used  to 
doing  for  myself,  and  I'm  fussy.  Between  you  and  me, 
if  you  taught  Clarissa's  children  you'd  know  that  Clarissa 
put  other  things  above  neatness.  They're  bright  children 
and  good  as  gold,  but  I'm  still  hoping  to  see  them  clean. 
I  never  said  this  to  anybody  else  as  I  know  of.  I'll  call 
for  these  things  later.  I'm  not  going  home  again." 

Mrs.  Benner  glanced  at  the  clock  which  hung  high  on 
the  wall  above  the  ready-made  clothes  counter.  "I'll  set 
them  away.  You'll  have  to  hurry  if  you  want  to  catch 
the  quarter-after  car." 

"Thank  you."  Miss  Martin  paid  and  departed.  She 
would  make  no  answer  to  what  was  practically  a  leading 
question;  but  on  the  other  hand,  she  scorned  to  take  a 
false  direction.  If  Mrs.  Benner  wanted  to  crane  her  silly 
neck  and  see  that  she  turned  up,  and  not  down,  the  street, 
158 


LOST  VALLEY 

she  was  welcome.  Sarah  as  a  diplomat  was  as  home-baked 
as  her  own  bread.  There  was  no  flavor  of  the  professional 
tin. 

Silas  Mann  did  not  speak,  except  to  comment  on  the 
weather,  until  they  neared  the  top  of  the  pass.  To  his 
remarks  Miss  Martin  replied  heartily.  Autumn  is  the 
season  to  which  we  quicken,  in  these  valleys,  and  the 
maples  are  a  password  in  our  taciturn  freemasonry. 
Spring  may  be  acknowledged  by  the  blood;  summer  is 
clamorous  with  crop  and  toil;  but  if  there  are  spiritual  ap 
proaches  to  Nature,  September  is  the  text.  These  two 
praised  the  weather  with  pagan  awe. 

As  they  topped  the  pass,  Silas  stopped  to  breathe  the 
horses.  He  looked  down  on  the  glittering  cup  of  the 
Valley  and  sighed.  "It's  a  sightly  place.  I  drove  John 
Lawrence  over  here  last  year.  It  hit  him  kind  o'  hard,  I 
guess.  He  said,  for  all  his  journeyings,  he  never  see 
anything  prettier.  But  he  don't  aim  to  come  back,  I 
notice." 

"No.    People  don't  aim  to  come  back,  I  guess." 

They  regarded  the  prospect  in  silence,  while  the  horses 
panted.  The  Roundtop  road  slid  away  from  before  them; 
the  farmsteads  on  the  other  side  of  the  valley  were  picked 
out  to  the  last  detail.  The  air  was  so  clear  that  noises 
were  borne  across  to  them  incredibly  far.  They  seemed 
to  breathe  and  see  and  hear  and  feel,  to  possess  the  scene 
with  every  sense,  all  with  one  act  of  deep  inhalation. 

Silas  lifted  up  the  reins,  which  he  had  let  fall  slack,  and 
turned  to  his  companion. 

"I  guess  you  didn't  tell  me  where  you  wanted  to  go, 
Miss  Martin." 

"I  guess  I  didn't,  Mr.  Mann.  The  Lockerby  farm. 
You've  driven  me  there  before,  haven't  you?"  She  knew 
Silas,  no  more  than  she,  would  have  forgotten  that  dark 
journey. 

159 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Certain  sure.  Heard  anything  of  those  Lockerby 
girls?" 

Silas  Mann's  words  could  have  been  more  delicate,  but 
not  his  tone.  A  world  of  character  lay  behind  his  speech, 
and  Sarah  Martin,  bred  to  these  mysterious  distinctions, 
could  sound  the  whole  man.  There  was  not  a  feather 
weight  of  impertinent  curiosity  in  his  blunt  query.  She 
knew,  as  if  she  had  read  it  expounded  in  a  book,  that  he 
was  all  potential  sympathy  and  real  discretion.  Not  the 
least  little  nerve  of  her  was  offended  by  his  seeming 
abruptness. 

"I  hear  from  Madge  sometimes.  I  don't  think  her 
uncle  ever  does.  So  I'm  going  over  to  tell  him  about  her." 
She  did  not  feel  the  need  of  even  hinting  that  this  was 
private  business. 

Si  nodded.  "That's  a  good  deed,  Miss  Martin.  No 
telling  how  Andrew  '11  take  it,  but  so  long  as  you  do  your 
duty,  that's  no  lookout  of  yours." 

He  clucked  to  the  horses,  and  they  wound  cunningly 
down  the  zigzag  steepness  of  the  road. 

As  they  crossed  the  bridge  and  came,  foot  by  foot, 
nearer  the  entrance  to  the  Lockerby  place,  the  diplomat 
found  her  heart  sinking.  She  turned  to  her  companion. 

"I  declare  to  goodness,  Mr.  Mann,  I'm  not  looking 
forward  to  this  call.  Mr.  Lockerby  wasn't  very  agreeable 
the  last  time  I  saw  him.  I  don't  know  as  he  even  wants 
to  hear  about  Madge.  But  he's  got  a  right  to  hear  if  he 
wants  to.  That's  how  I  feel  about  it.  Not  that  I  intend 
to  make  a  habit  of  this  business." 

Silas  pursed  his  lips.  "No  need  of  going  inside,  a  day 
like  this.  If  Andrew  ain't  round,  I'll  fetch  him  for  you. 
Then  you  can  have  your  little  talk  in  the  front  yard 
while  I  water  the  bosses  an'  turn  round.  I'll  be  ready  to 
start  back  any  time — though  I  ain't  in  any  hurry,  of 
course.  You  take  your  time."  He  craned  his  neck  as 
160 


LOST  VALLEY 

they  approached  the  farm.  "Looks  to  me  's  though 
Andrew  was  up  pasture.  You  set  here  while  I  go  call  him. 
Then  you  can  get  out,  and  I'll  turn  round/* 

Miss  Martin  got  the  full  value  of  Silas's  implications. 
Statement  of  intention  could  not  be  more  oblique.  But 
she  knew  that  he  had  practically  promised  to  stay  by,  not 
within  earshot,  but  within  eyeshot,  and  ready  to  whisk 
her  away  at  an  instant's  notice.  No  chivalrous  protesta 
tions  would  have  reassured  her  half  so  well  as  Silas's 
avoidance  of  anything  explicit.  It  was  the  manner  she 
was  accustomed  to;  she  would  have  been  embarrassed 
by  a  courtlier  one. 

She  sat  in  the  buckboard  while  Mr.  Mann  cramped  it 
and  turned  the  horses'  heads  toward  the  gate.  Nor  did 
she  descend  until,  after  some  minutes'  absence,  Silas  re 
turned  with  Andrew  Lockerby.  Then  she  got  down, 
and  with  a  wary  eye  on  the  living-room  door — it  was 
closed,  but  might  open  at  any  moment  and  exhibit  Ma'am 
Lockerby — walked  over  to  the  low  stone  wall  of  the  front 
yard,  and  sat  down.  Silas  Mann  turned  his  back  on 
them  and  stared  into  the  pasture,  chewing  a  bit  of  long 
grass.  The  very  slope  of  his  shoulders  was  a  guaranty 
of  indifference. 

Andrew  Lockerby  stood  truculently  before  Miss  Martin, 
leaning  on  a  rough  staff. 

"I'm  pretty  busy  this  morning,  Miss  Martin.  If  you'll 
tell  me  what  you  want,  I'll  be  glad  to  get  back  to  work. 
I  won't  ask  you  inside.  Mother  ain't  very  well." 

Sarah  had  no  reason  to  love  Andrew  Lockerby,  and  the 
tone  of  his  voice  stopped  just  short  of  insult.  But  Andrew 
in  the  flesh,  bounded  by  all  his  visible  ill  luck,  was  not  so 
easily  rejected  as  Andrew  imagined  from  a  safe  distance. 
She  was  Madge's  partisan,  yet  she  saw  that  Madge's 
uncle  might  have  a  grievance.  Therefore  she  clung  all 
the  more  to  her  dignity. 

161 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Mr.  Lockerby,  I'm  not  one  to  beat  about  the  bush,  or 
to  waste  your  time.  I  came  over  because  I  have  an  idea 
you  and  Madge  aren't  on  terms,  and  I  thought,  if  you 
wanted  to  hear  about  her,  you  had  a  right  to." 

"Did  Madge  tell  you  to  come?" 

"No,  she  didn't.  When  she  left  Siloam,  she  said,  'You 
can  tell  uncle  anything  you've  a  mind  to.'  She's  not  trying 
to  hide  anything  from  you.  But  Madge  isn't  going  to 
write  much,  yet  awhile." 

Andrew  Lockerby  shifted  his  weight  from  his  lame  leg 
and  folded  his  arms  on  the  top  of  his  staff.  "If  you've 
got  anything  to  say,  say  it.  I  don't  know  what  difference 
it  makes,  but  if  it  makes  you  feel  better  to  come  over 
here  and  gabble  about  Madge,  you're  welcome — so  it 
don't  take  too  long.  There's  only  one  thing  I  want  to 
know  about  her;  and  that  is  whether  she's  ready  to  come 
home  and  do  her  duty.  Till  then,  I've  got  nothing  to 
say  to  her.  She  can  put  that  in  her  pipe  and  smoke  it." 

"I'm  not  going  to  keep  you,  Mr.  Lockerby.  I  think 
you  have  a  right  to  know  where  Madge  is,  and  what  she's 
doing." 

"'Tain't  a  right  I  set  much  value  on." 

"That  is  for  you  to  decide.  I'm  going  to  do  my  duty, 
anyway." 

"Humph!    That  '11  be  a  relief  to  you,  I  don't  doubt." 

"Yes,  it  will."  The  diplomat  allowed  herself  to  be 
sharp.  Then  she  resumed  her  attempt  at  suavity. 

"I  want  you  to  understand,  Mr.  Lockerby,  that  Madge 
has  taken  her  affairs  into  her  own  hands.  The  only  thing 
I  could  do  was  to  see  to  it  that  Mary  Fales's  daughter 
didn't  go  out  from  under  my  roof  entirely  unprovided. 
It's  nobody's  business  what  I  think  of  what  Madge  has 
done.  Madge  doesn't  know  that,  herself.  She  saw  her 
duty  and  saw  it  plain;  and  it  wasn't  for  you  or  me  or 
anybody  else  to  interfere." 
162 


LOST  VALLEY 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  duty,"  Andrew  ex 
ploded.  "To  go  traipsing  off  after  that  good-for-nothing 
Lola,  and  never  give  a  thought  to  her  home?  She  knew 
as  well  as  anything  that  we  needed  her.  Her  grandmother 
needed  her.  The  place  needed  her.  If  she'd  had  any  con 
science,  she'd  have  placed  her  own  lawful  family  above 
Jim  Lockerby's  bastard.  Duty!  Wasn't  it  her  duty  to 
stay  by  for  a  few  years,  anyhow,  till  mother  went?  I  ask 
no  favors  of  anybody — not  my  own  flesh  and  blood,  even. 
But  she  knew  I  couldn't  run  the  farm  and  tend  to  mother, 
too.  Who  took  care  of  her  when  she  was  a  baby?  Mother 
and  me.  Not  brother  Jim  and  his  fancies!" 

The  flush  that  had  sprung  to  Sarah  Martin's  cheek  at 
the  sound  of  the  word  that  must  not  be  uttered,  had  had 
time  to  fade  before  Andrew  Lockerby  finished.  The  sight 
of  Silas  Mann's  impressive  back  was  a  comfort  to  her. 
She  would  do  what  she  had  set  out  to  do.  There  is  no 
doubt,  too,  that  Madge's  champion,  confronted  by  the 
havoc  Madge  had  certainly  wrought,  felt  it  incumbent 
on  her  to  say  what  could  be  said  for  the  girl.  For  there 
was  something  to  be  said  on  Andrew  Lockerby's  side. 
Unfortunately  she  could  see  that.  At  the  same  time,  she 
felt  that  she  understood  Madge  better  than  of  old,  now  that 
she  could  see  wThat  Madge  had  always  had  to  contend  with. 

"I'm  not  here  to  discuss  Madge's  duty  with  you. 
I'm  here  to  tell  you  that  ever  since  Lola  strayed  away, 
Madge  has  been  looking  for  her.  You  know  the  way  she 
has  always  felt  about  her  sister." 

Andrew  Lockerby  shook  with  anger.  He  turned  and 
spat  as  if  he  must  find  a  gesture  to  relieve  him.  But  he 
did  not  interrupt  otherwise.  Miss  Martin  went  on. 

"We  can't  help  that,  either.  Right  or  wrong,  Lola's 
the  thing  she's  cared  most  for.  She's  spent  all  these  years 
trying  to  keep  Lola  from  harm.  And  when  Lola  was  lost, 
Madge  felt  she  was  bound  to  follow." 

163 


LOST  VALLEY 

Andrew  Lockerby  sneered.  "I  heard  Lola  went  off 
with  one  of  those  organ  grinders.  Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  Madge  is  going  to  take  up  with  folks  like  that? 
What  kind  of  a  life  is  she  living,  I'd  like  to  know." 

"She  is  working  very  hard.  She  has  to.  Her  money 
didn't  last  long.  And  she's  still  hunting  for  Lola.  She 
hasn't  found  her  yet.  I'll  tell  you  just  where  she  is.  She's 
in  Boston.  She  thinks  that  Lola  came  there.  The  poor 
child  has  been  following  her  sister,  step  by  step,  and  she's 
always  just  missed  her.  You'd  be  sorry  for  Madge  if  you 
knew  what  she'd  been  through.  Right  or  wrong,  she's 
had  a  harder  time  than  she  would  have  had  at  home. 
Now  she  thinks  she's  on  the  track  at  last.  And  when  she 
finds  her,  she'll  bring  her  home  quick  enough." 

"Bring  her  home  here?"  Andrew  shouted. 

Miss  Martin  glanced  quickly  at  Silas  Mann.  He  had 
moved  a  little  farther  off  (his  back  still  turned)  in  the 
direction  of  the  barn,  and  was  passionately  examining  a 
grindstone  out  of  repair. 

"Not  much,  she  won't.  This  was  a  decent  house  till 
Jim  Lockerby  lost  his  senses  and  Lola  came  along.  Mother 
and  I,  we  stood  Lola  all  these  years,  but  we  won't  stand 
any  more.  Madge  can  come  home,  but,  by  God!  Lola 
can  stay  with  her  dirty  Italian!" 

Sarah  Martin's  delicacy  succumbed  to  these  repeated 
stabs.  She  rose  from  her  seat  and  confronted  Andrew 
Lockerby  with  firm,  clenched  hands.  Her  voice  fell  as  his 
rose,  but  her  anger  was  no  less  than  his.  "Mr.  Lockerby, 
I've  no  call  to  have  you  shout  this  kind  of  thing  at  me.  I 
came  here  to  tell  you  what  I  thought  you  ought  to  know. 
I  don't  say  life  has  been  easy  for  you  or  your  mother — 
though  I  suppose  she's  past  minding.  But  it  hasn't  been 
easy  for  Madge,  either.  She  lost  her  mother — and  anyone 
who  dares  say  anything  against  Mary  Fales  will  say  it 
over  my  dead  body.  She  lost  her  father — no  great  loss, 
164 


LOST  VALLEY 

either,  from  what  I  hear.  Before  she  was  fourteen,  she 
had  more  work  on  her  hands  than  many  a  grown  woman. 
It's  hard  all  round.  I  can  see  that.  But  I  think  Madge 
has  come  out  the  little  end  of  the  horn.  I  don't  know  any 
more  than  you  do  how  Lola  came  to  go  off,  or  where  she 
is  now,  or  what's  happened.  But  I'd  trust  Madge  to  make 
a  better  guess  than  either  of  us,  and  she  thinks  Lola  was 
fascinated  by  the  monkey  and  wandered  off  after  it.  She 
doesn't  believe — at  least,  she  didn't,  at  the  time — that 
the  man  had  anything  to  do  with  it." 

Lockerby  stared  at  her  as  if  in  a  stupor.  His  brain  was 
honestly  trying  to  receive  the  interpretation.  When  he 
found  it  impossible,  he  was  annoyed  at  the  waste  of  effort. 
He  laughed  coarsely — not  with  a  lewd  eye-flicker  like 
Bert  Breen,  but  with  an  almost  austere  cynicism. 

<;Tell  that  to  the  marines!" 

Sarah  Martin  flushed  once  more.  Privately,  she  agreed 
with  him,  but  she  was  not  going  to  show  it.  She  was  not 
even  going  to  discuss  the  matter.  Some  things  were  just 
too  much  for  the  habit  of  a  lifetime.  This  was  worse 
than  the  dreadful  day  when  a  visiting  minister  had 
preached  on  the  Seventh  Commandment. 

"  I'm  going,  Mr.  Lockerby,  now  I've  told  you.  Madge 
is  in  Boston.  She  hopes  to  find  Lola  soon.  If  she  does 
find  her,  you'll  have  to  make  up  your  mind  whether  you'll 
take  her  back  or  go  without  Madge  for  the  rest  of  your 
life.  You  know  your  own  mind  best.  Lola  isn't  respon 
sible  for  whatever  she  may  have  done;  but  if  you  choose 
to  shut  your  door  to  her,  you  have  a  right  to.  I  don't 
believe  it's  ever  entered  Madge's  head  that  you  would. 
This  is  their  home,  you  see.  But  that  '11  be  another  thing 
she  has  to  face — when  it  comes." 

Sarah  Martin  spoke  very  simply  and  neutrally,  but  the 
man  before  her  thought  that  he  caught  a  faint  flavor  of 
reproof  in  her  tone.  He  met  it  with  bitterness. 

165 


LOST  VALLEY 

"It's  all  very  well  to  stand  and  talk.  Lola's  been  a 
thorn  in  my  flesh  ever  since  she  was  born.  She  was  dis 
grace  enough  before  she  went  wrong.  And  you  think  I 
ought  to  take  her  back — with  an  organ  grinder's  child, 
most  likely — because  Madge  has  forgotten  everything 
except  Lola's  baby  face.  It's  asking  a  good  deal  of  flesh 
and  blood.  I  knew  you  had  a  weakness  for  Madge,  but 
I  didn't  know  the  other  one  had  bewitched  you,  too." 

Sarah  Martin's  partisanship  had  led  her  into  a  strange 
and  painful  situation.  For  that  she  had  been  prepared. 
What  she  had  not  been  prepared  for  was  the  irresistible 
desire  that  came  to  her  now.  She  cast  off  her  role  for  an 
instant:  something  unpartisan,  unprejudiced,  something 
deep  in  the  very  marrow  of  her  temperament,  cried  out. 

"Bewitched  me?  I'm  sorry  for  Lola,  I  suppose — I 
know  it  isn't  her  fault — but  I  hate  her" 

The  reaction  came  at  once;  and,  fearing  she  had  undone 
everything,  she  stood  trembling,  with  wret  eyes,  appalled 
by  her  own  frankness.  There  was  nothing  for  the  diplo 
mat  to  do  now  but  go  home  and  eschew  diplomacy.  She 
held  out  her  hand,  in  spite  of  what  had  passed  between 
them.  "Good-by,  Mr.  Lockerby.  I  oughtn't  to  have  said 
that,  because  you'll  misunderstand  me  now.  I  don't  go 
back  on  Madge  in  the  slightest  way.  I'll  stand  by  her 
to  the  end  of  time.  I  wouldn't  dare  to  judge  her.  She's 
a  better  creature  than  either  you  or  I.  But  I'm  not  one 
to  preach  charity  to  others  when  I've  shown  I've  got  no 
charity  myself.  I  guess  I've  made  a  mess  of  things.  You 
won't  see  me  again,  I  can  tell  you." 

The  shoulders  that  had  been  held  so  high  in  Siloam 
Main  Street  sagged  a  little. 

Andrew  Lockerby  did  not  take  the  outstretched  hand, 
and  she  caught  it  stiffly  back  to  her  side.  But  she  saw, 
as  she  looked  at  him,  that  he  had  merely  been  too  preoccu 
pied  to  notice  it.  Lockerby's  face  was  no  longer  shaped 
166 


LOST  VALLEY 

potentially  to  tenderness;  but  the  furrows  had  smoothed 
a  little.    The  glare  of  anger  had  gone. 

"That's  as  may  be.  But  you  needn't  go  regretting  you 
spoke  like  an  honest  woman.  It's  done  me  a  power  of 
good.  Coming  and  preaching  to  a  man  hard  pressed  like 
me  never  was  any  use.  It's  kind  of  comforting  to  know 
you're  no  better  Christian  than  I  am,  for  all  your  church- 
going.  Don't  you  go  and  spoil  it  by  sticking  up  for  the 
brat.  I  don't  know  as  I  mind  your  not  blaming  Lola  for 
anything,  's  long  as  you  hate  her." 

"I  wish — "  Sarah  began. 

He  shouldered  his  staff  and  prepared  to  walk  by  her 
side  to  the  buckboard. 

"Don't  you  wish  anything.  You  leave  it  right  there. 
You  bit  off  more  than  you  could  chew  when  you  tried  to 
make  Madge  out  an  angel  and  me  a  devil.  That's  no 
description  of  either  of  us.  I  know  you're  on  Madge's 
side,  all  right — but  she  hasn't  got  you  so  fooled  as  I 
thought  she  had." 

This  was  worse  and  worse.  "I  could  cut  my  tongue 
out,"  Sarah  exclaimed.  "I  hate  Lola  because  she's 
spoiled  Madge's  life — Mary  Fales's  daughter's  life.  Be 
yond  that,  I  don't  care  anything  about  her,  one  way  or 
the  other.  But  when  it  comes  to  Madge  Lockerby,  if  she 
was  in  jail  and  you  were  in  the  pulpit,  I'd  be  on  her  side. 
I'd  know  she  was  right  and  you  were  wrong." 

Andrew  gave  a  grim  chuckle.  "That's  what  I'd  call  a 
civil,  sensible  remark,  Miss  Martin.  You  run  your  school 
that  way,  and  they'll  be  making  you  state  superintendent 
pretty  soon." 

Miss  Martin  called  to  Silas  Mann.  He  turned  from  the 
grindstone  with  almost  military  alacrity,  and  helped  her 
into  the  buckboard.  Lockerby  stood  watching.  As  Silas 
took  up  the  reins,  the  diplomat  bent  over  to  Andrew. 

"How's  your  mother,  Mr.  Lockerby?" 
12  167 


LOST  VALLEY 

He  scowled  at  her.    "Does  Madge  want  to  know?" 

"I'd  like  to  be  able  to  tell  her." 

"You  can  tell  Madge  that  when  she  wants  news  of  her 
grandmother  she  can  come  back  and  get  it  herself. 
There'll  be  no  word  from  me  to  Madge  until  she  does. 
And  there'll  be  no  Paul  Prys  in  my  house  while  I'm  master 
there." 

There  was  no  reply  to  make  to  this,  and  Miss  Martin 
made  none.  The  buckboard  drove  off  with  a  silent  pair. 
As  they  drew  near  the  top  of  the  pass,  where  they  would 
lose  the  Valley  for  good  and  all,  Silas  Mann  spoke  once : 

"Kind  o'  violent  feller,  Andrew." 

"Yes,  he  is.  Not  but  what  I'm  sorry  for  those  people 
over  in  Lost  Valley." 

"M — m.  Ain't  anybody,  as  I  know  of,  you  can't  be 
sorry  for,  if  you  know  enough  about  'em.  They  say  Tom 
Benner's  got  a  cancer."  Silas's  discretion,  though  it  was 
not  in  the  grand  manner,  was  perfect.  Sarah  had  no  fear 
of  her  discomfiture's  becoming  common  property.  She 
relaxed  into  confident  and  soothing  silence. 

Andrew  Lockerby  watched  them  out  of  sight — craned 
his  stiff  neck  until  he  saw  them  swallowed  by  the  Round- 
top  woods.  Then,  throwing  down  his  staff,  he  went  into 
the  living  room.  Ma'am  Finch  had  set  out  food  on  the 
kitchen  table,  and  gone  home  to  her  own  dinner. 

Granny  sat  by  the  brick  oven,  glaring  wildly.  It  was 
one  of  her  bad  days,  but  rheumatism  was  a  firm  ally  of  her 
guardians  and  kept  her  quieter  than  of  old.  She  chat 
tered  at  Andrew  as  he  came  in,  and  picked  at  the  calico 
covering  of  her  chair  with  her  nails,  trying  to  tear  it.  Her 
son  made  no  remonstrance.  He  did  not  even  try  to  dis 
tract  her  attention,  to  soothe  her. 

Slowly,  laboriously,  awkwardly,  he  got  down  on  his 
knees  in  front  of  the  witchlike  woman  and  laid  his  head 
in  her  aproned  lap.  He  was  too  tired  to  care;  too  tired 
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LOST  VALLEY 

to  reason  out  his  own  astonishing  act.  He  did  not  know 
why  he  took  the  childish  posture — gnarled  brute  of  a 
man  that  he  was.  Perhaps  it  was  a  memory  of  the  only 
place  where  he  had  ever — and  that  in  distant,  unreal 
years — found  sanctuary.  But  as  if  those  old  years  still 
had  a  grain  of  power,  the  wild  discordant  chatter  dropped 
to  a  harsh  croon,  and  the  frail  claws  that  were  wont  to 
pick  and  steal,  passed  back  and  forth  almost  gently  over 
his  rough  hair.  He  pressed  his  forehead  into  her  lean 
lap,  drying  the  tears  as  they  came  to  burn  his  eyelids. 
His  arms  gripped  her  body. 

She  rocked  her  chair  a  little,  and  Andrew's  form  gave 
to  the  jerky  motion.  The  croon  went  on,  and  the  strok 
ing;  and  finally  Andrew's  eyes,  muffled  in  her  apron, 
stopped  smarting.  It  was  not  peace;  only  a  grotesque 
simulacrum  of  peace  that,  for  a  moment,  served:  a  little 
interval  when  beaten  instincts  rose  up  to  sway  and  soothe 
them  both — the  coarsened  man,  the  crazed  woman.  It 
could  not  last;  it  could  never  happen  again;  but  once  more 
feeble  humanity  had  turned  and  rent  its  tormentor. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

MISS  PHOEBE  MELLEN  unlocked  lier  door  and 
waved  her  guest  inside.  She  tried  to  keep  pride 
out  of  her  gesture,  but  it  was  very  hard.  The  guest  looked 
all  about  her,  walked  to  this  corner  and  to  that,  lifted  a 
denim  curtain  that  hung  before  an  alcove,  finally  paced 
the  chamber  off  from  end  to  end,  said,  "  Sixteen — about," 
and  sat  down  abruptly  in  a  tiny  black-painted  rocking 
chair.  Miss  Williams  had  a  coarse,  kindly  face,  which  an 
upturned  nose  kept  from  dignity  and  a  firm  jaw  from 
weakness.  Her  hair  was  abundant,  straight,  and  red,  her 
form  thick-set,  her  ankles  and  wrists  surprisingly  neat. 
Phoebe  Mellen  was  very  conscious  of  Miss  Williams's 
wrists  and  ankles:  they  made  up  for  a  good  deal.  On  the 
strength  of  them  she  had  decided,  long  since,  that  Miss 
Williams  was  a  lady.  That  she  was  a  good  woman,  her 
countenance  gave  full  guaranty;  but  subtlety  was  nowhere 
evidenced.  It  was  Miss  Mellen's  perpetual  endeavor  to 
find  some  mental  counterpart  of  the  wrists  and  ankles. 
"How  much  more  do  you  pay,  did  you  say?" 
Unlike  her  friend,  Miss  Mellen  was  all  delicacy:  in  fact, 
her  vitality  seemed  almost  pinched  out  of  existence. 
The  edge  of  the  nostril,  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  the  hol 
lows  of  the  veined  temples,  were  too  fine-drawn:  they 
shrank  away  into  timid  concavities  just  where,  as  features, 
they  should  have  made  a  positive  stand.  Her  brown  hair 
was  waved  very  precisely  and  netted,  partly  in  the  hope 
of  concealing  from  Miss  Williams  and  others  that  she  wore 
a  switch.  Her  blue  eyes  were  her  one  beauty:  they  had 
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LOST  VALLEY 

not  faded,  and  were  surprisingly  dark.  Her  complexion 
was  dull  and  a  little  pasty;  and  jade  green  was  the  last 
color  she  should  have  worn.  Now,  at  Miss  Williams's 
abrupt  question,  she  flushed  a  little,  and  the  flush  was 
unbecoming:  it  looked  unnatural,  for  there  was  no  rose 
in  the  texture  of  her  skin  to  help  out  the  rising  blood. 

"I  pay  three  dollars  more  a  week  than  I  did  for  the 
downstairs  room." 

"And  no  bathroom  higher  than  the  second  floor." 

"No:  but  with  no  gentlemen  up  here  that  is  hardly  an 
inconvenience." 

Miss  Williams  shook  her  head  roughly  like  a  colt. 
"I'm  afraid  it  would  be  to  me.  I  hate  stairs.  But  then, 
I'm  stout." 

She  looked  around  her  again.  She  had  not  much  eye 
for  detail,  but  she  could  not  fail  to  see  the  sesthetic  rigidity 
of  the  furnishing.  The  irregular  attic  room  was  "done" 
in  blue  and  straw  color.  The  dormer  windows  were  framed 
in  tan  scrim  and  blue  denim;  the  floor  was  matted,  under 
the  blue  rag  rugs;  the  couch  had  a  blue  cover  and  some 
pongee-covered  cushions.  The  chairs  were  wicker,  or 
black-painted  wood.  One  or  two  meager  bits  of  brass,  and 
some  gold-framed  pictures,  provided  decoration. 

"There  is  a  lot  still  to  do.  I'm  going  to  have  a  tea- 
table  and  a  brass  tray.  And  I've  just  put  up  the  pictures 
I  happen  to  have.  Fm  going  to  change.  I  think  I  shall 
have  some  Japanese  prints.  And  of  course" — her  des 
perate  longing  for  approval  made  her  mention  what  was 
rather  a  dream  than  an  intention — "I  really  need  a  Chi 
nese  rug:  a  modern  imitation,  I  mean,  but  that  lovely 
blue-and-fawn  coloring." 

Miss  Mellen  sat  down,  rather  suddenly.  The  show 
man  was  tired. 

Miss  Williams  made  an  inarticulate,  meditative  sound. 
"It  is  certainly  very  artistic,  Miss  Mellen." 

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LOST  VALLEY 

"Ah,  I'm  glad  you  think  so."  Life  seemed  to  flow  back 
into  her.  "I  think  it  will  be,  before  I  get  through  with  it." 

Miss  Williams  laughed.  "I  live  with  boarding-house 
furniture,  of  course.  But  then  I  eat  three  meals  a 
day." 

"I've  told  you,  Miss  Williams,  that  my  head  is  much 
better  when  I  don't  eat  a  heavy  dinner." 

"I  never  heard  anyone  call  Mrs.  Blackmer's  dinners 
heavy.  Most  people  complain  of  not  getting  enough." 

"It's  the  quality.  Her  gravies  are  greasy.  You  know 
it  perfectly  well." 

"I  know  it  isn't  the  Parker  House.  But  I  will  say  for 
her  the  meat  is  always  fresh.  However,  I'm  not  going 
to  quarrel  with  you  about  it  any  more.  We've  had  it 
out.  Only,  if  you  knew  what  I  know  about  light  house 
keeping,  you  might  not  be  so  enthusiastic.  Mrs.  Black- 
mer  makes  a  good  thing  out  of  it,  considering  that  you 
furnish.  On  the  other  hand,  I  suppose  she  doesn't  like 
cooking  in  the  rooms.  They  never  do." 

Phoebe  Mellen  flushed  again.  This  was  not  the  way 
she  liked  to  discuss  her  affairs. 

"I've  only  a  sterno  outfit,  you  know.  I  don't  really 
cook — just  boil  an  egg  or  make  some  toast.  I  really 
cant  eat  breakfast,  except  some  shredded  wheat  and 
George  Washington  coffee.  Then  I  have  that  heavy 
lunch  downstairs;  and  tea  and  toast  is  all  I  want  for 
supper — dinner,  I  mean.  A  little  fruit,  perhaps.  I've 
talked  it  all  over  with  Mrs.  Blackmer,  and  she  sees  I'm 
not  taking  advantage." 

"Taking  advantage  of  Mrs.  Blackmer?  I  guess  you 
couldn't,  Miss  Mellen.  Trust  her.  It's  natural  she 
should  favor  you  a  little,  the  long  time  you've  been  with 
her,  and  the  way  you've  stuck  by  her  in  her  troubles. 
She's  better  than  most  of  them.  There  are  women  right 
here  in  Pinckney  Street  who  are  no  better  than  vampires." 
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LOST  VALLEY 

Miss  Mellen  shuddered  a  little.  "I  know.  I've  heard 
Mrs.  Wickes  tell.  I  consider  myself  very  fortunate  to 
have  been  so  long  with  Mrs.  Blackmer." 

"Well,  I  guess  you  are."  Miss  Williams's  coarse  mouth 
showed  humor,  if  not  delicacy.  "Of  course,"  she  returned 
obliquely  to  the  attack — "/  think  Miss  Jacobs  ought  to 
give  you  lunch  in  her  own  house.  All  that  money  and  all 
those  servants!  Then  you  could  get  dinners  from  Mrs. 
Blackmer  and  have  an  artistic  room,  too." 

"Oh,  I  assure  you  I  much  prefer  to  come  home  to  lunch. 
It's  only  a  step  from  Mount  Vernon  Street.  It  makes  me 
much  more  independent.  I  have  my  office,  you  might 
say,  in  Miss  Jacobs's  house,  and  there's  no  confusion. 
It's  purely  professional.  I  like  that  so  much  better  than 
having  the  social  relation  come  up." 

Miss  Williams  looked  about  for  her  umbrella — for  she 
had  come  in  straight  from  work.  "Well,  good-by,  Miss 
Mellen." 

"Good-by,  Miss  Williams.  I'm  ever  so  glad  you  like 
my  room.  And  you'll  like  it  better,  I  know,  when  I  get  it 
finished." 

"I  think  it's  beautiful.  It  reminds  me  of  one  of  the 
model  rooms  at  Jordan  Marsh's,  on  the  fifth  floor.  I'm 
not  stuck  on  the  boarding  house,  any  more  than  you  are. 
Mother  used  to  set  an  elegant  table.  Seems  to  me  some 
times  as  if  I'd  give  ten  years  of  my  life  for  a  good  garden, 
and  some  telephone  peas  and  golden-bantam  corn  that 
hadn't  been  laying  in  a  dusty  market  for  two  days  before 
you  bought  'em.  A  little  shack  in  the  country  is  what 
/  want.  We  weren't  exactly  country — father  was  a  jeweler 
in  Wakefield,  you  know — but  we  did  have  a  lovely  garden, 
with  strawberries  and  everything.  Makes  my  mouth 
water  to  think  of  it." 

She  laughed  heartily. 

"Perhaps  we'll  see  you  after  dinner  to-night.  Mrs. 

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LOST  VALLEY 

Wickes  said  something  about  playing  hearts.  You're  all 
dressed  already." 

"I  guess  not  to-night,  thank  you.  I'm  going  to  hem  a 
portiere  to  go  over  the  door.  I  can't  stand  that  yellow 
wood,  and  Mrs.  Blackmer  didn't  want  me  to  paint  it." 

Miss  Williams  departed  heavily,  and  Phoebe  Mellen 
sighed,  relieved.  Though  she  liked  Miss  Williams,  hers 
was  not  the  presence  to  give  meaning  to  the  faithful  con 
sistency  of  her  beloved  room.  Miss  Williams  dressed  and 
talked  vividly,  without  modulation.  She  was  the  very 
negation  of  blue  and  straw  color.  Phcebe  sat  down  in 
her  window  seat  and  drew  out  of  her  little  bag  a  sample  of 
dark-blue  velvet.  She  held  it  lovingly  up  against  the  tan 
scrim  of  the  inner  curtain.  How  lusterless,  how  cheap,  it 
made  the  denim  look!  Of  course  people  would  think  her 
crazy  to  put  velvet  curtains  on  a  fourth-story  room  in 
Pinckney  Street — she  would  think  herself  crazy,  if  it 
came  to  that.  Probably  they  never  would  fit  anywhere 
else,  if  she  got  them  made  for  this  place.  A  gate-legged 
mahogany  table  would  be  far  more  to  the  purpose.  She 
wished  she  could  have  mahogany  all  through,  instead  of 
black  paint.  She  was  glad  Miss  Williams  hadn't  said 
anything  more  about  the  bed.  It  did  seem  a  little  Bo 
hemian  not  to  have  a  bed — just  a  couch  that  you  could 
cover  with  blue  denim,  and  pretend  your  bedroom  was 
somewhere  else.  Well:  she  couldn't  help  the  way  she 
was  made.  The  way  Miss  Williams  dwelt  on  vegetables 
— even  fresh  ones — was  simply  gross.  Probably  it  was  the 
box  factory  that  made  her  like  that.  She  must  have  come 
of  a  good  family — her  father  had  been  a  jeweler. 

Miss  Mellen  put  the  bit  of  velvet  back  into  her  bag, 
then  delved  behind  the  denim  curtain  and  juggled  pre 
cariously  with  dishes.  As  her  improvised  kitchenette  had 
also  to  conceal  her  toilet  furniture,  all  processes  were 
cramped,  and  took  delicate  maneuvering.  She  set  out 
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LOST  VALLEY 

her  plate,  cup,  and  saucer  on  the  center  table,  first  laying 
a  white  cloth  underneath;  then  placed  her  heating  ap 
paratus  on  a  japanned  tray  beside.  Bread  and  butter 
and  tea,  and  jam  out  of  a  pot,  sufficed  her.  She  ate  very 
slowly,  chewing  each  mouthful  a  great  many  times.  She 
had  done  that  ever  since  she  had  heard  a  lecture  on 
Fletcherism.  She  did  not  know  whether  or  not  it  helped 
digestion,  but  it  certainly  made  less  food  satisfy  your 
appetite.  She  felt  quite  appeased  when  she  rose  from  her 
frugal  supper. 

When  she  had  cleared  away,  she  pulled  her  portiere  out 
of  the  box  under  the  window  seat,  and  lighted  her  student 
lamp.  She  decided  to  be  comfortable.  No  one  would 
come  up — wasn't  Mrs.  Wickes  having  a  heart  party? — 
and  she  could  slip  into  something  loose.  She  took  off  the 
jade-green  voile,  which  had  done  duty  at  Mrs.  Blackmer's 
dinner  table  for  two  years,  and  put  on  a  dark-blue  kimono. 

She  sat  down  to  her  sewing.  "A  Bagdad  would  have 
been  more  expensive,"  she  whispered  to  herself,  "and  I 
don't  know  as  I  could  have  stood  it  all  next  whiter. 
Perhaps  there's  too  much  denim  round.  But  there's  no 
sense  in  sampling  blue  velvet.  I  wish  I  didn't  like  ma 
terials  so  much." 

She  found  the  denim  heavy  and  a  little  raw  to  the  touch. 
"Velveteen  is  cheaper  and  just  as  soft,"  her  disloyal 
mind  whispered.  Phoebe  Mellen,  beauty-struck  in  her 
ignorant  way  though  she  was,  had  some  ancestral  traits 
left.  When  her  mind  got  too  impish,  she  was  capable  of 
taking  measures.  She  got  up,  abstracted  the  bit  of  velvet 
from  her  bag,  opened  the  window,  and  let  it  flutter  into 
the  dark-blue  night.  Then  she  sat  down  to  her  sewing 
again.  She  must  do  her  stint  before  settling  to  the  luxury 
of  the  illustrated  magazine  of  decoration  that  lay  on  the 
other  table.  She  might  break  with  the  practicality  that 
had  been  taught  her;  but  though  her  blue  denim  was  an 

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LOST  VALLEY 

outrage  to  economy,  she  could  not  help  treating  it  as  she 
had  treated  patchwork  in  her  childhood.  If  she  had 
wantoned  with  blue-velvet  curtains,  she  would  still  have 
set  her  fingers  a  "stint."  For  though  it  is  written  that 
each  generation  shall  violate  the  proprieties  of  the  one 
before,  the  rate  of  advance  is  none  the  less  fixed.  How 
far  you  go  depends  on  how  far  your  grandmother  went. 
Phcebe  Mellen  might  have  ungodly  traffickings  with  Art, 
but  the  "stint"  superstition  would  never  leave  her. 

The  denim  portiere  was  very  long,  and  there  were  two 
breadths  of  it  to  be  sewed  together.  Though  coarse 
stitches  would  have  done  as  well,  Phcebe  Mellen  was 
constitutionally  incapable  of  coarse  stitches.  She  did  not 
like  sewing,  but  she  sewed  exquisitely — slowly,  too. 
Her  ugly  clock,  hidden  in  the  alcove,  struck  nine.  It 
was  time  to  stop,  but  she  still  had  a  yard  more  of  seam  to 
do.  She  pressed  her  lips  firmly  together  and  stitched  on. 

A  slow  step  mounted  the  stair,  and  she  heard  a  muffled 
knock. 

Miss  Mellen,  startled,  laid  aside  her  work  hastily. 
"Who  is  it?"  she  called,  as  she  rose. 

"Me.    Mrs.  Blackmer.    Can  I  speak  to  you  a  minute?  " 

"Why,  yes."  Miss  Mellen  opened  her  door.  "Come 
right  in.  I  hope  you'll  excuse  my  kimono.  It's  more 
comfortable  when  I  have  work  to  do." 

"Goodness!  I  don't  mind  kimonos.  A  boarding-house 
keeper  sees  worse  than  that.  You  look  real  pretty." 

"I  shouldn't  have  put  it  on  if  I  had  expected  to  see 
anyone  this  evening,"  Phcebe  answered  quietly. 

"Well,  you'll  have  to  decide.  There's  a  girl  downstairs 
says  she  wants  to  see  you." 

"A  girl?    Who?" 

"She  didn't  give  her  name  and  she  acted  a  little  queer. 
But  I  guess  she  really  does  want  to  see  you.  She  looks 
all  right — a  little  countrified.  The  ladies  are  playing 
176 


LOST  VALLEY 

cards  in  the  parlor,  so  I  thought  maybe  you'd  let  her  come 
up.  But  I  didn't  want  to  send  her  up  without  warning 
you,  so  I  came  up  myself.  Mildred's  out  to-night,  any 
way,  and  I  answered  the  door.  Shall  I  tell  her  to  come 
up?" 

"But — but  haven't  you  any  idea  who  she  is  or  what 
she  wants?" 

"Not  a  bit.  She's  right  handsome  and  quite  poorly 
dressed.  But  she's  very  quiet  and  well  spoken.  She  said 
she  knew  friends  of  yours  where  you  came  from." 

"Oh — "  It  meant  no  more  to  Phcebe  Mellen  than  to 
Mrs.  Blackmer  herself. 

"  It's  getting  late.  It  '11  take  me  some  time  to  dress. 
Can  she  wait  in  the  hall?" 

"Well,  the  ladies  have  got  all  the  chairs —  Goodness! 
Miss  Mellen,  why  don't  you  let  her  come  up?  She's  no 
body  you  need  mind.  Most  likely  she's  brought  you  a 
letter  or  something  from  a  friend  up  home." 

"All  right,  Mrs.  Blackmer. . . .  You  tell  her  to  come  up." 
It  was  rather  distressing,  but  she  could  see  that  Mrs. 
Blackmer  did  not  want  the  girl  in  the  hall,  or  disturbing 
the  card  party.  In  the  interval  of  waiting  for  the  young 
woman,  she  fastened  her  kimono  all  the  way  down,  threw 
a  shawl  over  her  shoulders,  and  changed  her  bedroom 
slippers  for  low  shoes.  Then  she  opened  her  door  again 
and  peered  out  into  the  passage.  The  shape  that  mounted 
the  stairs  and  came  toward  her  was  perfectly  strange. 

"I  am  Miss  Mellen.  Do  you  want  to  see  me?"  She 
turned  back  into  the  room.  "I  am  just  in  a  lounging- 
robe,  but  I  didn't  like  to  keep  you  waiting  while  I  dressed, 
it  is  so  late.  Have  you  some  errand  with  me?  Pray  sit 
down." 

Mrs.  Blackmer  had  been  right.  The  girl  was  poorly 
dressed,  and  she  was  handsome.  Phcebe  Mellen  had  never 
seen  her,  but  she  could  well  believe  that  her  visitor  had 

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LOST  VALLEY 

come  from  Barker  County.  She  looked  it.  The  agony 
of  shyness  that  obviously  possessed  her  was  reassuring, 
too — backed,  as  it  was,  by  equally  obvious  pride.  The 
girl  was  in  trouble  of  some  sort — but  not  (Phoebe  thanked 
her  stars)  of  any  sordid  kind.  She  didn't  look  ashamed 
of  anything. 

"  You  don't  know  me,  Miss  Mellen.  Perhaps  you  don't 
even  know  my  family  nowadays.  I'm  Madge  Lockerby, 
from  Lost  Valley,  and  liliss  Martin  in  Siloam  gave  me 
your  address." 

"Sarah  Martin,  the  school-teacher?" 

"Yes." 

Miss  Mellen  gasped  a  little.  These  names  came  back 
to  her  from  so  very  far.  She  hadn't  seen  Lost  Valley  or 
Siloam  for  twenty  years.  Lockerby s?  Yes,  there  used  to 
be  Lockerbys.  But  she  had  never  known  them,  for  her 
parents  had  left  the  Valley  when  she  was  a  child,  and  her 
visits  had  been  rare,  even  in  youth.  She  remembered 
Sarah  Martin  when  Sarah  Martin  had  been  a  young  lady 
attending  the  normal  school. 

"I  haven't  seen  her  for  a  great  many  years.  She  was 
a  friend  of  my  older  sister,  who  died.  I  remember  Lost 
Valley  a  little.  I  know  the  name  *  Lockerby,'  but  I  don't 
think  I  ever  saw  you.  What  did  Miss  Martin  want  you 
to  tell  me?" 

Phcebe  was  a  little  cold,  for  she  could  not  imagine  why 
Sarah  Martin  should  have  tried  to  reinvolve  her  in  Barker 
County  affairs.  She  considered  that  Miss  Martin — who 
was  almost  a  stranger  to  her — had  taken  a  liberty.  But 
Madge  Lockerby  could  meet  coldness  with  a  proper  pride. 

"Miss  Martin  was  my  mother's  best  friend.  She  has 
been  very  good  to  me.  When  I  left  home,  a  few  months 
ago,  I  hadn't  any  intention  of  coming  to  Boston.  Then, 
when  I  wrote  Miss  Martin  I  was  here,  she  sent  me  your 
address.  She  said  she  didn't  know  you  well,  but  she 
178 


LOST  VALLEY 

knew  your  sister;  and  you'd  lived  in  Boston  a  long  time, 
and  if  I  got  so  I  didn't  know  where  to  turn,  perhaps  you 
could  advise  me." 

Madge's  speech  had  been  rubbed  down  and  polished  a 
little  by  her  multitudinous  contacts.  It  was  more  color 
less,  less  pungent  in  idiom,  but  on  the  other  hand,  her 
intonations  were  more  pleasant.  The  natural  richness  of 
the  organ  was  getting  a  better  chance. 

Miss  Mellen  was  still  a  little  fearful.  She  apprehended 
nothing  vulgar  or  violent  from  the  girl,  but  like  any  help 
less,  sensitive  person  she  shrank  from  having  other  people's 
difficulties  presented  to  her.  "  What  did  she  expect  me  to 
advise  you  about?" 

"Just  about  Boston.  I'm  looking  for  my  sister,  you 
see.  And  I've  got  to  the  point  where  I  don't  know  where 
to  look,  or  how.  There  must  be  people  you  can  go  to,  in 
a  big  city  like  this.  Not  the  police,  I  mean." 

"Your  sister — "    She  really  did  not  know  how  to  go  on. 

Madge  knew  far  better  now  how  to  present  her  case. 
She  had  been  rebuffed,  sneered  at,  pitied,  and  cold- 
shouldered.  She  had  also  been  talked  down  to  by  level 
headed  men  and  women,  from  the  arid  heights  of  common 
sense.  She  did  not  hesitate  as  to  what  to  say. 

"It's  a  queer  story.  I  won't  take  up  your  time  telling 
you  the  whole  thing.  My  half -sister,  Lola,  is  very  pretty 
— a  great  artist  wanted  to  paint  her,  she  was  so  beautiful 
— and  very  young:  only  fifteen.  She  has  the  mind  of  a 
child,  too,  you  see,  and  that  makes  her  quite  helpless. 
She  isn't  normal,  though  she  is  good  and  sweet."  (A 
district  nurse  in  a  New  Hampshire  town  had  spent  half 
an  hour  of  sympathy  on  Madge,  and  her  vocabulary  had 
been  very  instructive.)  "She  strayed  away  from  home 
last  July — as  far  as  we  could  learn,  after  an  Italian  organ 
grinder's  monkey.  She  was  just  possessed  with  it.  I 
went  after  her  as  soon  as  I  found  she'd  gone.  Miss 

179 


LOST  VALLEY 

Martin  went  with  me  as  far  as  Barker's  Creek.  We 
thought  she'd  strayed  to  a  fair  in  Somerset.  But  she 
wasn't  there.  I've  been  following  her  ever  since;  but  I 
was  always  just  too  late  to  find  her.  I've  been" — her  fine 
brows  contracted  wearily — "oh,  I  couldn't  tell  you  how 
many  places  I've  been  to.  I'd  hear  of  her,  you  know — 
she's  so  lovely,  people  would  always  notice  her — and  go 
to  find  her,  and  something  always  kept  me  from  catching 
up  with  her.  Then,  a  few  weeks  ago,  it  seemed  pretty 
certain  she  had  come  to  Boston.  So  I  came  here,  and 
found  some  work.  When  I  have  any  time  I  search  the 
streets.  But  Boston  is  so  big:  it's  like  hunting  a  needle 
in  a  haystack.  I  wrote  Miss  Martin  I  was  discouraged. 
You  see,  I  thought  if  she'd  only  stay  in  a  place,  I  could 
find  her.  But  it  beats  me.  Miss  Martin  said  perhaps 
you  could  tell  me  the  people  to  go  to,  to  get  help.  Lola 
and  I  loved  each  other  so.  .  .  ." 

She  let  the  narration  stand. 

Miss  Mellen  was  shocked  to  the  core.  But  what  shocked 
her  was  at  one  remove  from  her.  It  was  not  sitting  oppo 
site  her  in  the  black  rocking  chair,  and  so  she  could  bear 
it.  She  tackled  it  obliquely. 

"You  say  a  great  artist  wanted  to  paint  her?  What 
do  you  mean?" 

"I  think  he  must  have  been  a  great  artist.  John  Law 
rence  got  him  to  paint  two  pictures  of  Lost  Valley  for 
him.  I  don't  think  Mr.  Lawrence  would  have  paid  him 
to  do  it  if  he  hadn't  had  a  great  respect  for  him.  And  he 
said  Lola  was  so  beautiful — a  year  ago,  that  was — that 
he'd  give  anything  to  paint  her." 

Phoebe  Mellen  had  heard  of  John  Lawrence.  There 
would  be  no  sense  in  pretending  that  she  had  not.  And 
it  somehow  took  the  curse  off  the  dreadful  little  girl  who 
had  run  away  with  an  organ  grinder,  that  her  prettiness 
was  a  bait  to  artists. 
180 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Poor  child!"  The  pity  was  for  the  girl  who  was  so 
beautiful.  Madge  realized  that,  and  responded  to  it, 
comforted. 

"That's  how  I  feel — only  a  thousand  times  more,  be 
cause  I've  loved  her  always." 

"What  steps  have  your  family  taken?" 

Madge  drew  back.  "My  family  doesn't  take  steps — 
that  way.  There's  only  my  uncle  who  runs  the  farm,  and 
my  grandmother  who's  childish.  Uncle  hates  Lola — 
because  she  isn't  normal,  and — I  may  as  well  tell  you — 
because  her  mother  wasn't  my  father's  wife.  She  was 
born  after  my  mother  died.  Uncle  never  could  seem  to 
see  it  wasn't  Lola's  fault.  He  hasn't  forgiven  me,  I  sup 
pose,  for  leaving  home  to  look  for  her.  No,  the  family 
won't  do  anything.  I'm  the  only  person." 

If  Lola  had  not  been  beautiful — paintably  beautiful, 
moreover — there  is  no  telling  with  what  gesture  Miss 
Mellen  would  have  drawn  away  from  the  dreadful  story. 
The  legend  of  beauty  held  her.  In  all  probability  there 
was  in  her,  too,  enough  of  the  sex  antagonism  so  common 
to  women  of  the  spinsterish  type,  to  make  her  feel  dimly 
that  no  woman  could  ever  be  quite  so  vile  as  almost  any 
man  was  likely  to  be  on  the  slightest  provocation. 

She  considered  a  moment. 

"Of  course,  the  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  go  to  the  po 
lice,  Miss  Lockerby.  They're  the  people  to  search  the 
slum  places  for  you." 

Madge  flushed  deeply.  "I  could  have  thought  of  that, 
myself.  I  may  come  to  it.  But  I  thought  there  might  be 
some  one  else.  I've  come  to  see  this  isn't  a  very  simple 
matter.  I  think  the  man  must  have  been  afraid  of  being 
followed,  or  he  wouldn't  have  twisted  and  turned  so.  It 
looks  as  if  he'd  suspected  some  one  was  on  his  track.  I'd 
rather  not  have  the  police  brought  into  it  till  I  have  to. 
He  might  hurt  Lola — he  might  kill  her — if  the  police  came 

181 


LOST  VALLEY 

after  him.  I  thought  of  going  to  some  minister,  but  it's 
a  big  city,  and  one  minister  likely  couldn't  do  anything." 

"It's  a  matter  for  the  police,"  Miss  Mellen  reiterated. 
"In  your  place" — she  winced  a  little  at  her  own  phrase — 
"I  should  certainly  go  to  headquarters  and  get  them  to 
search." 

Madge  shook  her  head.  "I  want  to  get  hold  of  some 
body  who'll  search  for  her  without  making  trouble.  Some 
body  who  could  just  take  me  to  her  without  frightening 
her  to  death.  And  who  wouldn't  make  the  Italian  man 
suspicious.  If  he  saw  the  police  coming  round,  he  might 
go  off  again,  somewhere  else." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  what  else  to  tell  you.  They 
have  plain-clothes  men,  you  know — not  in  uniform." 

"Yes,  but  I've  heard  they're  just  as  well  known, 
almost." 

Miss  Mellen  was  a  little  impatient.  "If  you  could 
afford  to  go  to  a  detective  agency,  that  might  be  the 
best  thing.  But  I  suppose  you  can't." 

Madge  shook  her  head  again.  "I  can  just  barely  keep 
body  and  soul  together,  as  it  is,  Miss  Mellen."  There 
was  no  plaintiveness  in  the  statement,  only  cold  protest 
against  romancing. 

"Well,  then — I  don't  see.  I'll  ask  the  lady  whose  secre 
tary  I  am,  if  you  wish  me  to.  But  I  think  she  would  say 
police  headquarters,  too." 

"I  probably  seem  stubborn  to  you,"  Madge  said 
quietly.  "But  I  somehow  feel  this  isn't  the  place  for  a 
policeman.  I  may  come  to  it,  of  course.  .  .  .  I'm  sorry  to 
have  taken  so  much  of  your  time.  Thank  you  for  listening 
to  me.  If  the  lady  you  work  for  can  think  of  anything, 
perhaps  you  would  leave  a  letter  for  me  at  the  door.  I 
could  call  in  a  few  days  and  see  if  there  was  one." 

"Better  give  me  your  address." 

"I  think  I'd  be  surer  of  getting  it  if  I  called,  thank  you. 
182 


LOST  VALLEY 

I  don't  live  in  a  very  nice  place.  It's  a  kind  of  alley,  I 
mean.  I  don't  know  as  I'd  get  it." 

"Nonsense!  The  postmen  go  everywhere.  Where 
is  it?" 

Madge  named  the  "court"  and  the  number.  "You 
can  get  pretty  close  to  it  on  a  Shawmut  Avenue  car." 

"  Oh,  over  at  the  South  End.  I  shouldn't  suppose  that 
was  the  place  to  hunt  for  an  Italian."  But  she  did  not 
really  want  to  discuss  the  matter,  and  she  hastened  on. 
"  I  will  ask  Miss  Jacobs  to-morrow  if  she  knows  any  better 
intermediary  than  the  police.  And  if  you  really  prefer 
it,  I'll  leave  a  note  here — say  by  Thursday."  She  won 
dered  if  it  was  her  duty  to  see  the  girl  again.  She  hoped 
not. 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Miss  Mellen.  I  won't  trouble 
you  any  more  now.  I'm  sorry  to  have  taken  your  time. 
If  you  would  ask  this  Miss  Jacobs,  I'd  be  very  grateful. 
I  shouldn't  have  troubled  you  at  all  if  Miss  Martin  hadn't 
told  me  to  come  to  you.  Sometimes  a  very  little  thing 
helps  when  you  don't  expect  it." 

Phoebe  Mellen,  anxious  as  she  was  to  dissociate  herself 
from  this  tragic  quest,  did  not  quite  like  the  implication 
that  she  was  a  very  little  thing. 

"I'm  sorry  I  can't  do  more.  But  I  feel  sure  anyone 
would  tell  you  the  police  were  the  best  people.  It  is  the 
usual  thing  to  do." 

Madge  seemed  not  to  hear  her — which  was,  again, 
annoying.  She  was  gazing  about  the  room — ready  to  go, 
but  stopping  irresistibly  to  look.  Then  she  turned  to  Miss 
Mellen,  as  if  there  had  never  been  any  question  of  Italian 
organ  grinders  between  them. 

"Your  room  is  lovely,  isn't  it?  Everything  matches  so 
beautifully.  There  aren't  any  ugly  things.  I  think  it  must 
be  like  a  studio." 

The  shaft  went  straight  to  Phoebe  Mellen's  soul. 
13  183 


LOST  VALLEY 

The  tone  was  so  quiet,  so  assured.  No  floundering,  like 
Miss  Williams's.  It  was  the  tone  of  indifference,  in  point 
of  fact — Madge's  heart  was  far  away;  but  it  was  all  the 
more  effective.  Miss  Mellen  gasped  a  little.  There  was 
something  besides  Lost  Valley  in  the  girl. 

"An  artist  told  me  once" — Madge  went  on  dreamily — 
"that  nothing  was  lovelier  against  dark  blue  than  copper. 
He'd  lived  in  France,  you  know.  And  I  remember  he 
said  a  friend  of  his  had  dark-blue  velvet  hung  all  round, 
and  yet  the  place  didn't  look  right.  So  he — the  artist, 
I  mean — went  down  into  the  kitchen  and  got  all  the 
copper  pots  and  pans — it  seems  they  cook  in  copper 
there — and  dumped  them  in  the  middle  of  his  friend's 
room,  and  it  lighted  the  place  all  up.  He  actually  threw 
some  of  the  silver  things  out  into  the  yard,  just  to  show 
him.  Funny,  wasn't  it?  But  I  think  people  like  that  are 
interesting.  They  don't  seem  to  have  any  sense  about 
some  things,  but  they  teach  you  a  lot,  just  the  same.  I 
remember  I  got  so  I  could  see  how  blue  shadows  are — 
not  black,  you  know." 

She  turned  toward  the  door  and  reached  for  the  handle, 
to  let  herself  out.  With  her  other  hand  she  just  touched  a 
brass  jug.  "That's  pretty.  It  shines  beautifully.  I 
suppose  copper  would  be  better,  wouldn't  it?"  She 
seemed  to  rouse  from  her  dream.  "Thank  you,  Miss 
Mellen.  Good  night."  She  passed  across  the  threshold. 

Phoebe  Mellen  stopped  her.  She  was  not  going  to 
discuss  copper  with  this  Lost  Valley  upstart,  but  she 
had  not  been  able  to  keep  herself  from  quick  inward 
response  to  Madge's  tone.  A  girl  who  had  ever  heard 
about  copper,  aesthetically  speaking — a  girl  who  thought 
her  room  lovely,  and  like  a  studio — was  not  going  to  be 
turned  away  from  her  door  like  that.  Remember  that 
Phoebe,  too,  was  a  starved  soul. 

" Come  back  a  minute,  Miss  Lockerby.  I  have  an  idea." 
184 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Oh!"  Madge  stepped  quickly  back  into  the  room. 
Her  trance  was  over — she  had  forgotten  the  bit  of  half- 
unconscious  reminiscence  into  which,  by  train  of  associa 
tion,  she  had  been  led.  Once  more  she  was  about  her 
real  business,  all  intent  on  the  strange  convolutions  of  her 
duty.  Her  eyes  were  almost  intolerably  eager. 

"It  has  just  occurred  to  me — "  Miss  Mellen  began ; 
and  she  spoke  truthfully,  for  the  fact  was  that  she  had  not 
once  during  their  conversation  really  put  her  mind  on 
Madge  Lockerby's  troubles.  She  had  wanted  to  be  as 
polite  as  necessary,  and  to  get  rid  of  her.  With  her  first 
real  interest  in  Madge's  personality,  her  brain  had  begun 
to  work. 

"It  has  just  occurred  to  me  that  you  might  get  some 
help  from  the  North  End  Settlement  people.  The  Italian 
quarter  is  down  there,  and  they  go  in  and  out  of  all  those 
tenements  constantly.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  they  stood 
a  better  chance  of  finding  out  things  than  the  police,  be 
cause  people  are  used  to  them.  They  send  out  nurses  and 
visitors,  you  know,  and  of  course  a  great  many  Italians 
come  to  the  Settlement  House.  I  think  some  of  the  work 
ers  there  might  help  you.  They  live  right  down  among 
the  people." 

"Oh,  that  sounds  splendid!  I'm  so  glad  you  thought 
of  it.  How  would  I  get  to  see  them?  "  The  weariness  had 
gone  from  Madge  Lockerby's  face  and  form:  the  little 
furrows  were  smoothed,  the  relaxed  limbs  were  tightened, 
the  rosy  blood  simmered  again  beneath  her  skin.  Why,  the 
girl  was  too  handsome,  Miss  Mellen  opined,  with  a  vague 
sense  of  danger. 

"I'll  ask  Miss  Jacobs  to-morrow.  She  is  sure  to  know 
the  head  people." 

"And  you'll  leave  a  note — maybe  to-morrow?  I  ought 
to  apologize  for  coming  so  late,  but  my  work  isn't  over 
till  seven." 

185 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Where  is  your  work?" 

Madge's  shoulders  sagged  a  little  under  the  memory  of 
many  things  that,  in  her  hope,  she  had  forgotten. 

"It  isn't  very  nice  work.  The  Travelers'  Aid  woman 
found  it  for  me.  I  scrub  the  floors  in  a  cafeteria  and  wash 
some  of  the  dishes.  But  I  have  to  live,  and  we  get  one 
meal  from  the  restaurant  kitchen."  Then  she  shook  her 
head  as  if  to  toss  away  care.  "But  it  doesn't  matter.  I 
sha'n't  stay  here  after  I've  found  Lola.  Anything's  all 
right  to  go  along  with  until  I  find  her.  I  mind  the  people 
more  than  the  work.  It's  honest.  If  I  was  going  to  be 
here  all  winter,  I'd  try  to  get  a  place  in  a  store.  But  of 
course  I  sha'n't  be." 

"I  should  think  you  could  have  done  better  to  go  to  the 
Y.  W.  C.  A." 

"  I  thought  of  that.  The  Travelers'  Aid  woman  wanted 
me  to.  But  as  far  as  I  can  make  out,  they  want  to  take 
too  much  care  of  you.  I've  got  to  be  free  to  look  for  Lola. 
I've  walked  the  streets  till  midnight.  Besides — "  Madge 
had  not  learned  the  word  "institutional"  in  her  wander 
ings,  but  she  could  scent  the  idea  from  far.  She  was 
wary  of  all  organization,  and  hers  was  too  free  a  spirit  to 
bear  efficiency. 

"Perhaps  we  can  find  something  better."  Miss  Williams 
was  at  the  back  of  Phoebe  Mellen's  mind,  but  she  did  not 
choose  to  go  farther  now.  She  had  thought  of  making 
supper  for  Madge  on  Thursday,  but  she  put  the  thought 
away.  The  girl  might  talk  about  copper's  lighting  up 
dark  blue,  but  the  fact  of  the  floor-scrubbing  remained. 
Secretaries  gave  floor  scrubbers  presents  at  Christmas — 
presents  they  could  ill  afford.  She  would  not  ask  her  to 
supper  yet.  But  she  would  certainly  speak  to  Miss  Wil 
liams  as  well  as  to  Miss  Jacobs,  and  the  consciousness  of 
this  intention  made  her  feel  more  gracious  than  perhaps 
she  seemed. 
186 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Come  to  see  me  Thursday  night.  Ask  them  to  let 
you  come  right  up." 

"Yes,  I  will."  The  girl  glowed  before  her  like  a  pas 
sionate  flower. 

"Have  you  a  picture  of  your  sister?  You  might  bring 
that.  They'd  probably  find  it  very  helpful." 

A  shadow  crept  across  the  glow.  "No,  I  haven't  any. 
But" — her  voice  was  still  radiant — "you  can  tell  people 
that  she  was  like  an  early  Italian  Madonna.  You  almost 
never,  in  America,  see  anyone  so  like.  Quite  early,  of 
course — primitive."  Arthur  Burton's  phrases  came  back 
to  her,  the  dearer  for  distance. 

Madge  went  down  the  stairs.  Miss  Mellen  was  so 
astounded  that  she  forgot  to  tell  her  about  the  catchy 
step  at  the  top  of  the  second-floor  landing. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

THE  other  half  of  Taddeo  was  the  property  of  Pietro 
Giardini :  a  squat  barrel  of  a  man,  whose  sphericity 
was  racked,  at  uncertain  periods,  with  asthma.  It  was 
the  asthma  that  kept  him  from  taking  the  road  with 
Taddeo,  and  forced  him  to  depend  to  some  extent  on  the 
probity  and  business  ability  of  Giuseppe.  He  hated  Giu 
seppe — which  was  quite  natural,  when  you  consider  all 
the  elements  of  their  relation.  Giuseppe  had  health; 
he  owned  half  of  the  monkey,  and  undoubtedly  would 
eventually  own  all  of  him.  Giuseppe  could  wander,  ex 
hibiting  Taddeo  for  money,  and  Pietro  had  no  means  of 
knowing  whether  Giuseppe  told  the  truth  about  the 
amount  he  received.  True,  Pietro  had  agreed  to  sell  his 
interest  in  the  animal  for  a  certain  sum;  but  in  all  prob 
ability  Giuseppe  would  achieve  that  sum  easily.  And 
until  Giuseppe  paid  it,  he  had  agreed  to  divide  receipts 
fairly  with  his  partner.  Obviously  the  purchase-money 
must  come  out  of  Giuseppe's  half.  What  was  to  prevent 
Giuseppe  from  lying  about  his  receipts?  He  could  quietly 
put  by  until  he  was  able  to  buy  out  Pietro 's  share — 
cheating  Pietro  meanwhile.  And  Pietro  could  prove  noth 
ing.  He  could  not  put  up  the  price  of  his  interest  in  the 
animal,  for  at  least  twenty  people  had  heard  the  price 
discussed,  shrieked  over,  named  and  sworn  to,  this  twelve 
month.  Half  of  Revere  Street  could  testify  against  him 
if  he  tried  to  gouge  his  partner. 

Taddeo  was  not  Pietro 's  sole  resource,  or  it  would  have 
gone  hard  with  him,  who  could  not  beg  food  by  the  way- 
188 


LOST  VALLEY 

side,  or  save  rent  by  sleeping  under  the  stars.  Long  ago, 
he  had  lent  his  nephew  money  to  help  him  stock  a  little 
grocery  shop.  But  the  nephew  had  taken  unto  himself  a 
wife,  a  whole  staircase  full  of  children  had  ensued,  and 
the  older  Giardini,  subject  to  asthma,  had  become  a  charge 
on  the  household  before  his  time.  The  other  half  of 
Taddeo  was  his  diamond,  his  interest-bearing  bond,  his 
acre  of  land,  his  stake  in  the  commonwealth  of  property, 
practically  all  that  divided  him  from  dependence,  from 
pauperdom.  His  niece-in-law  made  no  secret  of  the  fact 
that  it  would  be  better  business  for  them  to  give  Uncle 
Pietro  his  little  share  of  the  proceeds  and  let  him  shift 
for  himself.  He  had  the  largest  appetite  in  the  house, 
and  he  had  a  room  to  himself:  at  least,  only  two  of  the 
boys  shared  his  attic.  Yet  there  was  no  denying  he  had 
an  interest  in  the  stock.  On  Saturday  nights,  when  they 
counted  up  receipts,  he  always  contrived  to  be  there; 
and  he  had  a  maddening  trick  of  rehearsing  the  items  of 
that  ancient  invoice  of  goods  which  he  had  paid  cash  for. 
"Olives — twenty  jars;  macaroni,  spaghetti,  fifty  pounds; 
olive  oil,  ten  gallons";  and  so  on,  and  so  on,  through  a 
long  list.  He  had  memorized  it,  after  the  invoice  itself 
was  worn  thin.  It  made  Maria  sick  to  think  of  that  cata 
logue  of  food  consumed  so  many  years  since.  But  Revere 
Street  remembered,  too,  the  stocking  of  the  shop — it 
was  before  her  marriage — and  tended  still  to  think  of 
Zio  Pietro  as  the  rich  man  of  the  firm.  What  could  Maria 
Giardini,  cursed  with  a  gentle  and  stolid  husband,  do  but 
sputter  and  complain  and  stop  short  always  of  driving 
her  uncle-in-law  into  the  streets?  Sometimes  he  would 
go  many  weeks — a  few  months,  even — without  a  bad  at 
tack;  and  at  such  times  he  would  talk  of  withdrawing  his 
capital  and  setting  up  for  himself  in  a  better  locality. 
Terrific  quarrels  would  result — for  there  was  really  no 
capital  to  withdraw — and  a  fresh  attack,  during  which  he 

189 


LOST  VALLEY 

would  do  everything  alarming  except  die,  would  silence 
them  all. 

The   Giardini   tenement — a   little   old   wooden   house 
squeezed  between  two  modern  rookeries  of  brick — was  a 
breeding  place  of  hatreds.    If — as  I  have  heard  that  some 
people  believe — walls  could  keep  the  vibrations  of  the 
human  passions  they  have  contained,  and  give  them  out 
again  after  many  days,  letting  the  stored  horror  flow  about 
the  helpless  minds  of  later  tenants:  if  such  a  thing  could 
be,  woe  to  the  people  who  might  succeed  the  Giardinis  in 
that  rotting  house.    The  only  thing  that  saved  the  Giar 
dinis  from  the  recoil  of  their  own  violence  was  the  incon 
sequent  rapture  of  their  infrequent  holidays,  when  they 
piled  themselves,  ten  strong,  on  an  electric  car  and  in 
fested  the  sands  of  Revere  Beach  or  even  Nantasket. 
They  disported  themselves  among  the  cheaper  devices 
for  amusement,  and  dear  Uncle  Pietro  kept  an  eye  on  the 
baby  while  he  filled  himself  with  steamed  clams.     So  life 
went  for  them,  ricochetting  from  quarrel  to  expansive, 
impersonal  joy  of  living.     But  the  days  of  dull  routine 
outnumbered  the  "captain  jewels  in  the  carcanet."    The 
Giardini  household  was  like  a  pot  set  on  to  boil,  and  some 
times  lifted  off.    The  lifting  off  delayed  the  consummation; 
but  the  pot  simmered  a  little  nearer  to  boiling  point  each 
time,  and  there  would  come  a  day  when  it  boiled  indeed. 
Maria  Giardini  had  a  healthy  gift  for  scenes — literally, 
as  distinguished  from  an  unhealthy  gift.  There  was  nothing 
morbid  or  pathological  in  her  tendency.     She  did  not  so 
much  pick  quarrels  as  develop  any  given  situation  in  a 
sanguine  and  violent  manner.    She  did  not  feel  that  she 
had  made  her  point  clear  unless  she  had  exaggerated  it 
with  insults  and  insinuations  unspeakable.    Where  some 
people  dot  their  i's,  Maria  turned  hers  into  exclamation 
points.      She    was    constitutionally    vivid,    congenitally 
selfish,  experiencing  all  the  natural  emotions  with  simple 
190 


LOST  VALLEY 

and  unfeigned  violence.  The  steady  blood  never  ebbed 
from  her  cheek;  her  body,  which  frequent  maternity, 
much  starchy  food,  and  the  confinement  of  shop  and  house 
had  enlarged  to  a  portentous  girth,  was  firm-fleshed  and 
strong;  her  black  hair  was  still  a  wiry  and  massive  dia 
dem.  She  enjoyed  food,  movies,  gossip,  and  the  satisfac 
tion  of  every  appetite — she  enjoyed  also  both  sorrow  and 
anger.  The  Revere  Street  funerals  fed  the  one  craving, 
and  Zio  Pietro  the  other.  Maria  Giardini  was  almost 
excessively  natural;  her  blood  was  a  torrent  in  her  veins. 
Her  maternity  matched  the  rest.  She  loved  her  children 
extraordinarily.  Her  mild  husband  she  cherished,  as  the 
necessary  male  and  the  ordained  head  of  a  household. 
With  him  she  was  seldom  angry. 

Such  was  the  haven  that  Lola  Lockerby  found  when 
the  autumn  chill  drove  them  from  free  countrysides  to 
dingy  shelter.  Maria  greeted  them  with  noisy  suspicion. 
As  it  happened,  she  did  not  hate  Giuseppe:  she  was  a 
little  afraid  of  him,  and  the  female  of  Maria's  type  does 
not  necessarily  hate  what  she  fears.  She  divined  in  Giu 
seppe  capacities  before  which  her  own  fell  short. 

It  was  touch-and-go  whether  or  not  Maria  would  accept 
the  fair-haired  child  Giuseppe  and  Taddeo  brought  in 
their  train.  When  they  entered  the  shop  at  twilight,  she 
at  once  assumed  the  worst.  But  Zio  Pietro's  spontaneous 
rage  at  the  thought  that  this  female  companion  of  his 
partner  would  delay  the  purchase,  would  consume  re 
ceipts,  and  make  it  less  likely  than  ever  that  he  would 
get  his  fair  half,  drove  her  to  the  opposite  side  within  five 
minutes  from  the  time  when  they  were  espied  by  the 
children  on  the  much-inhabited  sidewalk. 

There  was  not  even  the  pretense  of  greeting.  Pietro, 
by  chance,  was  in  the  shop  when  they  came.  The  choppy 
sea  of  clipped  and  raucous  Italian  phrase  surged  at  once 
through  every  corner  of  the  little  shop.  Maria  shut  the 

191 


LOST  VALLEY 

door  against  customers — improbable  at  the  supper  hour — 
dragged  Lola  and  Taddeo  out  of  the  flood  into  a  kind  of 
shelter  behind  a  bunch  of  bananas,  and,  arms  akimbo, 
shrieked  at  her  uncle  what  she  thought  of  him.  In  a  few 
moments  the  altercation  was  solely  between  her  and  him, 
while  Giuseppe,  with  glistening  eyes,  watched  in  silence 
the  flashing  of  the  diverted  storm. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  Giuseppe  had  determined  to  de 
fend  Lola's  reputation  from  any  chivalrous  motive.  He 
had  expected  it  to  be  attacked  as  soon  as  she  was  seen, 
and  he  intended  to  dispose  of  the  accusations  as  soon  as 
possible.  If  Maria  Giardini  would  not  be  reasonable, 
he  would  go  elsewhere.  But  he  hoped  to  make  her  reason 
able.  He  liked  the  kennel  that  he  knew.  Besides,  the 
last  thing  that  he  wanted  was  a  neighborhood  scandal, 
and  charity  officials  descending  upon  Lola.  If  they  were 
received  into  the  Giardini  family  for  a  time,  it  would  be 
much  easier.  Also  it  would  be  a  safe  place  to  leave  Lola 
in  while  he  worked  the  suburbs  in  the  clear  October 
weather.  It  was  only  in  the  back  country  that  he  dared 
to  show  her.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  looked  for  an 
opening  through  which  to  push  his  first  placating  speech. 

Pietro,  almost  inarticulate,  what  with  rage  and  short 
breath,  had  just  affected  to  perceive  that  the  strange 
girl's  form  showed  signs  of  approaching  maternity — at 
which  his  niece's  contemptuous  laugh  rose  high  among 
the  pendent  strings  of  onions — when  Giuseppe  took  a 
hand. 

"Fat  fool.  Be  quiet.  This  thing  is  nothing  of  the  sort. 
I  will  tell  you  all  about  it.  After  eating.  She  was  sent  to 
me  by  Saint  Lucy  in  my  parish  church  at  home.  Do  you 
think  I  would  bring  a  piece  of  street  trash  into  the  house 
of  Signora  Giardini?  Besides,  I  am  a  serious  man." 

One  of  the  older  girls  burst  through  the  door  at  the 
back  of  the  shop  to  tell  her  mother  that  the  meal  was 
192 


LOST  VALLEY 

ready  in  the  kitchen.  With  her  came  an  overpowering 
odor  of  steaming  olive  oil.  Maria  thrust  aside  an  impeding 
child,  made  her  way  to  Lola,  bewildered  and  shrinking 
behind  her  swinging  rampart  of  bananas,  and  pushed  the 
girl  into  the  center  of  the  shop. 

"She  must  eat,  I  suppose." 

Pietro 's  voice  roared  huskily  in  protest.  Giuseppe 
turned  his  back  on  his  partner  and  addressed  a  basket  of 
potatoes  in  the  foreground:  "The  Signora  Giardini"  (he 
had  not  failed  to  note  that  Maria  preened  herself  under 
the  phrase)  "has  a  heart  of  gold.  Saint  Lucy  will  reward 
her.  Anyone  but  a  pig  would  see  that  the  girl  is  an  inno 
cent — an  instrument  of  God.  She  came  suddenly  at  twi 
light  and  took  the  monkey  in  her  arms.  People  rushed  to 
put  money  in  the  hat.  I  have  done  very  well.  But  Pietro 
Giardini,  who  is  too  fat  and  breathless  and  utterly  vile  to 
do  business  with  decent  folk,  does  not  even  wait  to  hear 
how  much  money  I  have  earned  for  him.  He  must  be 
filling  the  room  with  his  stinking  breath.  We  will  eat.  We 
will  pay.  And  then  we  will  go  elsewhere,  the  monkey,  the 
girl,  and  I." 

Even  Pietro — for  whom  there  is  little  to  be  said — might 
legitimately  be  enraged  at  Giuseppe's  assumptions  of 
virtue.  The  impudence  of  Giuseppe  started  him  splut 
tering  again.  There  was  so  much  to  say  that  his  words 
choked  him.  He  could  hardly  get  them  out.  But  he  was 
hungry,  and  his  partner  had  admitted  having  money  for 
him;  and  when  he  saw  his  niece  cross  herself  with  up 
raised  eyes,  then,  with  an  arm  about  Lola's  waist,  lead  her 
into  the  clamorous  stuffy  kitchen,  he  could  only  acquiesce, 
and  postpone.  He  stumped  along  meekly  behind  the 
others,  and  was  silent  through  the  noisy  meal,  quietly 
robbing  the  plates  of  the  children  each  side  of  him  when 
ever  Lola  or  Taddeo  drew  their  eyes  away.  Lola,  habitu 
ated  now  to  crowds  of  people,  still  had  never  eaten  with 

193 


LOST  VALLEY 

so  many  about  her.  It  was  hard  for  her  to  swallow  food, 
to  taste  it  even,  with  such  close  company  to  trouble  nerves 
and  sense.  She  fed  Taddeo,  clutching  him  close.  Only 
once  did  she  speak,  when  one  of  the  children  tried  to  pull 
the  monkey  away  from  her.  "No,"  said  Lola,  trembling 
and  pale.  Giuseppe  interfered  in  her  favor — without 
abusing  the  brat,  because  he  wished  to  keep  the  brat's 
mother  on  his  side.  He  was  tired.  He  did  not  wish  to 
spend  hours  searching  for  another  lodging — dodging  city 
missionaries  and  such  at  every  turn. 

Cloudy  weather  had  turned  to  rain  while  they  ate; 
and  the  children,  deprived  of  the  streets,  clattered  off  to 
bed  earlier  than  usual.  Carlo  Giardini  went  off  to  mind 
the  shop.  There  were  few  customers,  but  the  grocery  was 
never  closed  until  bedtime.  Sometimes  a  woman  with  a 
shawl  over  her  head  came  in  for  matches,  or  a  pint  of 
kerosene,  or  a  bit  of  snuff.  Carlo  sat  by  the  oil  stove, 
drowsily  reading  an  Italian  newspaper.  He  paid  no  at 
tention  to  the  voices  yonder  in  the  kitchen.  He  was  used 
to  living  next  door  to  a  tidal  wave  of  sound.  His  wife 
and  his  uncle  were  always  quarreling,  and  Giuseppe's 
returns  were  habitually  the  signal  for  more  noise  than 
ever.  When  he  could,  he  escaped  their  altercations.  He, 
too,  was  keen  to  know  the  result  of  Giuseppe's  summer — 
money  was  money,  even  if  Uncle  Pietro  pocketed  it — but 
his  wife  would  tell  him  when  the  fighting  was  over.  He 
sucked  at  his  pipe,  and  read,  and  nodded. 

They  came  in,  at  last,  like  a  conclave  that  has  broken 
up,  each  one  hot  with  his  successes  or  his  failures,  still 
mouthing  the  words  said  or  unsaid — all  except  Lola, 
white,  stumbling  with  sleep,  holding  Taddeo  in  her 
arms.  Maria  Giardini  swept  the  girl  to  a  broken  cane- 
seated  chair  propped  against  a  counter.  The  others 
subsided  to  boxes,  Uncle  Pietro  breathing  heavily  as 
he  relaxed  his  limbs  to  the  sitting  posture. 
194 


LOST  VALLEY 

"You  will  tell  my  husband  what  you  have  told  me,*' 
Maria  said,  with  emphasis,  to  Giuseppe.  "You  will  tell 
him  all.  I  go  to  make  up  a  bed  for  the  girl."  She  vanished, 
and  they  heard  her  climbing  to  the  second,  then,  more 
faintly,  to  the  third  story  of  the  tumble-down  wooden  house. 

Pietro  sat  holding  a  cotton  bag  of  money.  The  weight 
of  it  silenced  him,  as  if  it  had  lain  upon  his  heart.  His 
share  of  the  receipts  of  that  golden  summer,  and  a  full 
two-thirds  of  the  purchase-money  for  the  monkey,  made 
a  good  deal.  The  other  half  of  Taddeo  was  slipping  from 
him.  If  it  is  human  to  want  to  eat  your  cake  and  have  it 
too,  it  is  even  more  so  to  ache  for  your  possessions  when 
you  have  parted  with  them  for  a  sum.  Regrets  lie  thick 
about  them  as  they  go.  Nor,  when  you  are  old,  is  it 
wholly  a  relief  to  liquidate  any  business;  no  matter  how 
good  a  bargain  you  have  made,  you  dislike  withdrawing 
from  active  affairs.  He  had  listened  to  Giuseppe's  dra 
matic  tale  of  Lola's  advent.  He  had  seen  superstition 
slowly  tinge  his  niece's  attitude — had  learned  that  at  least 
she  was  not  going  to  turn  the  girl  out,  neck  and  crop. 
He  had  no  faith  in  the  girl's  virtue,  still  less  in  her  con 
nection  with  Saint  Lucy;  but  on  the  other  hand,  he 
realized — the  proof  lay  heavy  in  his  hand — that  she  was 
a  coiner  of  gold.  He  could  see  that  it  would  be  a  pity  to 
lose  her.  He  dared  not  have  her  thrust  into  the  street. 
Trollop  or  not,  she  must  be  preserved  to  them.  Why, 
the  monkey  even  slept  with  her,  took  all  its  food  from  her 
hands.  She  had  bewitched  Taddeo.  It  was  all  wrong, 
but  it  had  to  be  dealt  with  as  a  fact.  She  meant  that 
Taddeo  would  soon  be  Giuseppe's;  but  on  the  other  hand, 
she  meant  more  money  for  him  meanwhile.  The  poor, 
grunting,  gasping  lump  of  a  man  could  do  nothing  but 
acquiesce.  When  Maria  had  returned,  he  mounted  to 
his  attic,  hating  Giuseppe  more  steadily,  calmly,  danger 
ously,  than  he  had  ever  hated  him  before. 

195 


LOST  VALLEY 

The  others  brightened  a  little  when  Zio  Pietro  had  left 
them.  But  Giuseppe  pointed  with  his  pipe  to  Lola.  "She 
must  sleep/'  he  said  authoritatively. 

"Of  course."    Maria  was  all  zeal.    "And  the  monkey?" 

"He  goes  with  her.  She  is  an  innocent.  She  loves 
only  the  monkey.  And  the  monkey  loves  only  her.  I 
tell  you" — he  rolled  it  out  with  unction — "it  is  a  sacred 
partnership."  Then  he  yawned,  and  his  stubby  beard 
bristled  uncleanly  about  his  face. 

Maria  Giardini,  with  an  arm  about  the  child  to  keep 
her  from  stumbling,  led  her  up  to  the  little  room  off  Zio 
Pietro's — a  mere  closet,  where,  none  the  less,  two  children 
slept  in  a  rickety  three-quarters  bed.  She  had  made  a 
nest  for  Lola,  by  sweeping  away  the  clothes  and  boxes 
stored  behind  a  red-calico  curtain,  and  wedging  in  a  cot 
in  their  place.  She  had  never,  all  these  hours,  ceased  to 
wonder  at  Lola's  pallor,  her  vacant  dreaminess,  her 
golden  hair — untidy  now,  it  must  be  confessed,  to  a  degree 
that  must  have  shocked  Saint  Lucy.  Maria  almost  half 
believed  in  Giuseppe's  mystical  suggestions.  With  the 
other  half  of  her  mind,  she  saw  that  there  was  no  harm  in 
the  girl. 

The  Giardini  sat  on  one  end  of  the  cot  while  Lola  slipped 
off  her  stained  and  ragged  clothes.  Then  she  made  Lola 
sit  down  beside  her,  and  plaited  her  hair  roughly.  The 
gesture  stirred  memories  in  Lola's  obsessed  brain.  She 
moved  uneasily  under  the  woman's  touch.  "Madge,"  she 
murmured.  "Madge."  But  the  process  was  soon  over, 
and  the  strange  surroundings  obliterated  again  what  had 
been  irresistibly  recalled.  She  laid  herself  beneath  the 
covers. 

Maria  Giardini  rose  and  lifted  her  candle  from  a  shelf. 
"Buona  notte"  she  whispered. 

"Giuseppe?" 

Maria  pointed  to  the  partition  wall.  Lola  watched  her 
196 


LOST  VALLEY 

out  of  sleepy  eyes,  held  open  only  by  the  fear  that  these 
strange  people  might  steal  Taddeo  from  her.  But  the 
woman  went  out,  with  her  candle,  and  Taddeo  curled 
himself  up  beside  her  pillow,  in  the  crook  of  her  arm. 
She  fell  asleep. 

Less  than  a  mile  away  as  the  crow  flies,  Madge  Lock- 
erby,  who  had  not  yet  sought  out  Phoebe  Mellen,  was 
searching  aimlessly  through  the  crooked  precincts  of  Han 
over  Street  and  Dock  Square.  Six  hours  to  the  west, 
Arthur  Burton  in  his  refurbished  studio  was  looking, 
ironically,  yet  warmed  by  his  own  indubitable  skill,  at  a 
portrait  of  Lockerbys'  Lola,  done  from  pencil  notes  that 
were  half  scribble  and  half  sketch.  He  turned  away  from 
it  presently  to  other  things.  It  was  but  one  face  among  a 
thousand,  all  thrilling  enough  to  an  eye  that  saw  as  his 
eye  saw.  The  flight  of  Lola,  the  passion  of  Madge's 
search,  were  of  course  unknown  to  him.  Had  he  been  sud 
denly  made  aware  of  what  has  been  recorded  here,  the 
one  of  them  all  that  Burton  would  have  understood 
through  his  scorn  was,  perhaps,  Giuseppe. 


CHAPTER  TEN 

ELA  fitted  herself  gradually  to  the  ways  of  the 
Giardini  household:  more  easily,  perhaps,  than 
another  and  a  different  creature  would  have  done.  Much 
of  life,  to  her,  was  ever  a  mystery;  unable  to  cope  with  it, 
unable  to  comprehend  any  background  against  which  she 
was  set,  she  had  long  since,  under  Madge's  tutelage,  be 
come  docile.  Unless  you  touched  on  some  source  of  fear 
or  fresh  desire,  she  was  biddable.  Madge,  except  as  the 
slackening  law  of  association  still  occasionally  worked, 
had  faded  as  an  image  in  her  poor  mind.  She  had  rushed 
out  of  her  context  to  follow  the  one  creature  that  had  ever 
stirred  her  tepid  brain;  and  cuddling  Taddeo  in  her  arms, 
rapt  by  the  daily  spectacle  of  him,  nattered  and  soothed 
by  the  animal's  affection  for  her,  she  watched  the  scenes 
of  life  shift  before  her  eyes,  without  understanding,  with 
out  interest.  The  insistent  questioning  of  a  normal 
brain,  she  did  not  have  to  contend  with.  Save  for  a  few 
immediate  concerns — hunger,  thirst,  sleep,  the  monkey — 
she  saw  the  world,  like  any  mystic,  as  a  phantasmal  tissue. 
Backgrounds  meant  little  to  her,  for  she  never  pierced 
them  with  a  query,  or  tried  the  wearisome  human  game  of 
pattern  making.  In  the  first  rapture  of  her  quest,  to  reach 
and  to  hold  Taddeo  was  enough.  Eventually  she  became 
habituated  to  Giuseppe,  to  the  wandering  life,  even  to  the 
strange  people  that  jostled  near  and  put  money  into 
Taddeo's  cap.  She  learned  that  Giuseppe  did  not  care 
to  have  her  talk  or  answer  questions:  that  he  was  better 
pleased  when  she  merely  smiled  and  did  not  try  to  under- 
198 


LOST  VALLEY 

stand.  On  those  terms,  life,  after  all,  was  pretty  easy* 
Giuseppe  was  careful  of  her,  within  limits;  saw  that  she 
had  shelter  and  food  and  did  not  walk  too  far.  Her  young 
body  throve  on  the  outdoor  life.  Her  face  did  not  burn 
or  tan:  only  the  fairness  of  her  skin  deepened  to  ivory 
under  the  open  heavens,  and  the  blood  stirred  more  freely 
beneath  the  delicate  flesh.  She  talked  very  little  even  to 
Giuseppe,  but  she  caught  from  him  a  few  Italian  words, 
and  struggled  at  last  to  comprehension  of  his  utterance 
of  English  syllables. 

Lola's  instincts  served  her  in  place  of  mental  processes. 
She  would  have  sensed,  like  any  animal,  like  any  child, 
Pietro's  hostility  long  before  she  did,  in  all  probability, 
had  not  Maria  Giardini  so  quickly  ranged  herself  on  the 
young  girl's  side.  Maria  brushed  her  hair,  heaped  her 
plate,  fended  for  her,  kept  her  by  her  side,  away  from  Zio 
Pietro.  The  first  time  Giuseppe  left  the  house  with  Taddeo 
to  spend  the  day  in  some  suburb — Somerville  or  Chelsea 
— Lola  was  terrified.  She  tried  to  rush  out  after  them 
into  the  street;  she  would  have  followed  them  afar  off 
if  it  had  not  been  for  the  enveloping  presence  of  the 
watchful  Maria.  The  next  day  was  not  so  painful ;  and  by 
the  time  the  bad  weather  set  in,  she  had  got  used  to  their 
disappearances,  only  growing  uneasy  as  twilight  came 
on,  and  sitting  long  hours  in  the  shop  window  to  look  for 
them.  This  did  not  suit  Maria,  who  preferred  to  have  her 
concealed  from  the  public  eye;  but  she  made  a  nest  for 
Lola  among  the  groceries,  where  she  would  not  be  too 
visible  from  the  sidewalk. 

Giuseppe  began  about  this  time  to  have  a  new  ambition. 
His  courses  among  the  suburbs  were  not  very  rewarding. 
The  children  were  back  in  school,  and  the  sophisticated 
housewives,  more  often  than  not,  shooed  him  away  from 
their  doors.  This  was  very  different  from  the  triumphs  of 
the  summer.  Hitherto,  the  highest  peak  his  eye  could 
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LOST  VALLEY 

strain  to  had  been  the  possession  of  both  halves  of  Tad- 
deo.  Desire  breeds  desire,  however,  and  one  vision  be 
gets  another.  He  saw  now,  after  a  few  trivial  weeks  in 
greater  Boston,  that  his  wheezy  old  organ,  which  played 
only  three  outdated  tunes  and  played  them  to  the  sheer 
pain  of  listeners,  would  not  do.  If  he  was  to  winter  in 
town,  he  must  have  something  better.  The  monkey  was 
all  very  well,  but  people  laughed  at  "  The  Wearing  of  the 
Green"  and  "Money  Musk"  as  they  came  groaning 
forth.  The  music,  too,  had  silent  notes:  the  tunes  were 
gap-toothed.  For  the  country,  in  summer,  the  organ 
might  do  still.  But  of  course — he  saw  it  in  one  flash  as  he 
turned  the  corner  of  Revere  Street  on  a  raw  November 
evening — he  needed  a  street  piano.  With  new  tunes — the 
"Marseillaise"  and  "The  Star-spangled  Banner"  and  the 
aria  out  of  "II  Trovatore" — and  perhaps  two  canaries 
in  a  cage  atop.  By  the  time  he  reached  the  house  door, 
he  loathed  the  organ  so  much  that  it  took  all  his  business 
sense  to  keep  him  from  smashing  it  on  the  sanded  floor — 
letting  it  stand  on  its  one  leg  and  topple  over  to  destruc 
tion.  He  felt  toward  it  as  toward  an  enemy.  He  would 
have  liked  to  break  its  leg,  and  smother  its  voice  in  its 
throat. 

By  mid-December  Giuseppe,  like  Pietro,  was  a  man  with 
a  grievance.  Where  Pietro  took  his  out  in  vain  talk  and 
short-breathed  rages,  Giuseppe  linked  his  to  a  plan.  It 
did  not  look  as  though  he  would  be  able  to  buy  the  other 
half  of  Taddeo  before  spring — for  of  course  he  kept, 
secretly,  a  small  fund  against  emergencies.  But  he  must 
buy  Taddeo  before  he  could  begin  saving  up  for  the  street 
piano.  With  the  street  piano  he  could  perhaps  have  for 
gone  the  monkey;  but  Pietro  would  never  pay  him  back 
the  moneys  received  on  account,  and  besides,  without 
Taddeo  he  could  probably  not  keep  Lola.  Giuseppe  would 
have  turned  both  Lola  and  the  monkey  adrift  with  no 
200 


LOST  VALLEY 

lasting  compunction — Saint  Lucy  or  no  Saint  Lucy — but 
here  was  the  rub.  He  would  need  them  both  to  make 
money  for  him  the  next  summer.  Of  course,  too,  with  a 
street  piano  you  needed  a  girl  along,  to  shake  a  tambourine 
and  help  pull.  He  would  prefer  a  strapping  Italian  girl. 
Yet  it  might  be  that  Lola  would  do — but  he  had  not  got 
to  that  yet. 

What  his  plans  came  to  was  this.  He  must  take  Lola 
and  Taddeo  on  the  road  early  in  the  spring,  first  striking 
south,  then  working  northward  with  the  heat.  As  soon 
as  he  could  finish  the  payments  on  Taddeo,  he  would 
begin  to  save  for  the  street  piano.  With  a  street  piano 
once  well  in  sight,  he  could  sell  the  monkey.  He  wished 
he  could  part  with  the  monkey  now,  but  that  he  could  not 
do  while  Pietro  owned  so  much  as  a  patch  of  its  fur.  He 
ground  his  broken  teeth  together  as  he  thought  of  all  the 
money  Pietro  had  had  out  of  him  during  their  partner 
ship.  And  he  must  still  go  on,  dividing  the  little  coin 
that  came  to  him.  If  he  could  break  loose.  .  .  .  And  while 
Giuseppe  planned,  letting  himself  go  in  dark  schemes  of 
evasion,  Pietro  Giardini  watched  him,  in  the  murky 
kitchen,  where  the  sun  never  came  even  on  fine  days,  and 
nursed  his  own  grievance.  Pietro  did  not  believe  that  he 
was  getting  his  fair  share.  Those  coppers  flung  at  him 
after  a  long  day  in  the  suburbs :  they  were  a  joke,  a  dirty 
joke,  of  the  devil  himself.  Giuseppe,  he  was  sure,  de 
ducted  his  board,  and  the  girl's  board,  and  the  monkey's 
board,  before  sharing.  If  he  had  kept  only  as  much  as 
he  paid  Pietro,  he  could  never  have  paid  their  board  at  all. 
And  if  Pietro  protested,  his  niece  would  be  down  on  him 
with  all  the  fangs  of  hatred  new-venomed. 

Then  the  snow  came,  stopping  up  even  the  scanty 
returns  from  the  suburbs.  Only  the  prospect  of  Christmas 
saved  the  family  from  rending  itself  like  the  man  with 
seven  devils.  The  children  looked  forward  to  the  holiday, 

201 


LOST  VALLEY 

and  their  chatter  covered  the  lower  threatening  note. 
Lola,  practically  a  prisoner,  though  kindly  treated,  was 
beginning  to  lose  color,  while  the  starchy  food  and  lack 
of  exercise  made  her  stouter.  The  face  was  more  saintly 
in  its  pallor,  but  the  archaic  slimness  had  rounded  to  more 
human  curves.  Thus  was  Giuseppe  divided  between  the 
eidolon  of  Saint  Lucy  and  the  girl  molded  to  swing  a 
tambourine  and  pull  a  street  piano.  Could  he  keep  the 
girl  without  the  monkey?  The  planning  grew  wilder, 
stirred  by  the  very  inaction  of  the  muffled,  snow-bound 
days,  when  one  could  not  peep  over  the  brim  of  the  pot. 

Snow,  which  in  the  country  is  a  pious  veil  over  the  faults 
of  earth,  a  vesture  of  holiness  to  the  very  edge  of  the 
horizon,  is  a  horror  pure  and  simple  in  city  streets.  There 
it  means  only  a  softer  and  deeper  defilement  of  the  ways. 
Its  damp  breath  is  depressing  as  it  falls,  and,  where  it 
falls,  it  lies  and  merges  with  any  filth  it  finds.  The  rain 
that  beats  on  you  may  soak  you  to  the  skin,  but  it  glistens 
and  cleanses  as  it  sweeps  through  the  paths  made  for  it. 
To  be  snow-bound  in  a  slum  is,  after  the  first  few  hours, 
as  sordid  a  thing  as  may  be.  The  flakes  grow  black  before 
your  eyes;  their  masses  clog  your  feet;  and  presently 
garbage,  ashes,  and  refuse,  covered  for  a  moment,  stand 
revealed  and  welded  together  in  caked  piles.  The  very 
daylight  has  an  unfamiliar  quality,  and  there  is  something 
demoralizing  to  the  whole  man  in  that  pretense  of  purity 
which  immediately  becomes  dirtier  than  the  dirt  it  touches. 
Sounds  are  muffled  along  with  sunlight,  and  the  evil  heart 
is  more  audible.  Clean  rain,  in  the  slums,  is  then  your 
only  hope,  for  tin  cans  and  orange  peels,  frozen  into  black 
ice,  like  a  devil's  dessert,  are  not  inspiriting. 

Meanwhile,  the  large,  loose  net  that  Madge  Lockerby 
had  been  flinging  wildly,  first  north,  then  south,  over  an 
uncharted  city,  was  being  more  scientifically  cast  by 
helping  hands.  Maria  Giardini  did  well,  on  her  part,  to 
202 


LOST  VALLEY 

hide  Lola,  for  the  search  was  drawing  near.  Three  days  of 
snow  that  did  not  freeze,  yet  did  not  quite  turn  to  rain, 
had  set  even  the  children  to  whining.  Pietro  Giardini, 
who  had  grown  angry  over  his  coppers,  was  angrier  still, 
now  that  receipts  had  ceased. 

By  the  reeking  oil  stove  that  supplemented  the  dying 
warmth  of  the  kitchen  range,  the  elders  talked,  their  rau 
cous  words  vibrating  uncontrollably.  Carlo  felt  the  ha 
treds  surge  about  him  on  every  side — Maria  and  Pietro, 
Pietro  and  Maria,  Pietro  and  Giuseppe,  even  Giuseppe 
and  Maria,  so  near  they  all  were  to  unreason.  His  own 
mild  silence  grew  nervous.  Pietro  sat  upright  in  his 
chair,  mustering  strength  for  a  statement  of  his  case.  The 
others  were  so  used  to  that  gasping  sound,  which  accom 
panied  all  the  business  of  life — like  a  snoring  dog  in  the 
room  where  people  gather — that  they  did  not  know  the 
effort  wtas  conscious  and  supreme. 

Maria  jumped  violently  forward  in  her  chair  at  the 
sound  of  his  voice:  labored,  but  fraught  with  surprising 
passion. 

"For  two  weeks  I  have  received  nothing  from  Giuseppe 
Fasanella  for  my  share  of  his  earnings.  For  two  weeks, 
not  a  centesimo.  Yet  I  am  still  part  owner  of  the 
monkey." 

"Earnings!"  Giuseppe's  broken  teeth  showed  fang- 
like  in  a  snarl.  "There  are  no  earnings  this  month,  this 
weather.  I  have  paid  the  Signora  Giardini  nothing,  either. 
You  can't  get  blood  out  of  a  stone." 

"In  the  spring  it  will  be  better."  Carlo  rolled  his  head 
from  side  to  side,  speaking  judicially.  Carlo's  pacific 
phrase  was  like  the  attempt  to  douse  an  alcohol  flame  with 
water. 

"  Spring !  And  who  is  to  wait  until  spring  for  the  money 
owing  them?"  This  was  mere  snapping  on  Maria's  part, 
for  she  knew  perfectly  that  winter  was  close  time  for 

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LOST  VALLEY 

organs  and  monkeys.  But  the  hint  of  agreement  em 
boldened  Pietro:  it  was  a  weapon  given  into  his  hand. 

"  When  the  monkey  becomes  Giuseppe's  property,  he  is 
welcome  to  be  as  lazy  as  he  chooses.  But  he  is — the  devil 
be  thanked — my  partner.  Until  he  has  bought  out  my 
share,  he  owes  me  half  of  the  receipts." 

"Fool!  If  there  are  no  receipts!"  Giuseppe  broke  in. 
"Is  it  written  that  you  should  grunt  away  your  days 
resting  in  a  chair,  and  feeding  like  a  hog  being  fattened  for 
sale,  doing  no  kind  of  work,  while  I  toil  and  endure  the 
weather,  to  support  you?  I  was  a  fool  to  promise  half 
the  receipts  when  I  had  myself  and  the  monkey  to  keep, 
and  the  tramping  to  do,  and  the  weight  of  the  accursed 
organ  to  carry.  Would  you  have  made  a  fortune  sitting 
at  the  shop  door  and  grinding  the  tunes?  It  is  true  I  owe 
for  board.  How  many  years  is  it  since  you  have  paid  for 
food  or  drink  or  lodging?"  He  did  not  look  at  Pietro 's 
niece  as  he  shot  his  bolt. 

"What  Giuseppe  Fasanella  says  is  true,"  Maria  shrilled. 
"We  lodge  and  feed  this  monster,  because  my  husband  is 
a  saint  for  kindness.  Eleven  years  I  have  been  married, 
and  because,  a  dozen  years  since,  he  brought  some  wretched 
food  in  a  wheelbarrow  to  set  on  the  shelves — " 

Maria,  by  losing  her  temper,  had  brought  the  invoice 
upon  herself.  She  was,  you  may  say,  entirely  to  blame. 

"Wretched  food?  In  a  wheelbarrow?"  Pietro  him 
self  expected  to  choke,  but  the  demon  of  asthma  stood 
afar  off,  seeing  merrier  play.  "In  a  wagon.  From  the 
wholesale  warehouse.  The  best  from  Italy.  I  filled  the 
empty  shelves.  Ten  gallons  of  olive  oil,  fifty  pounds  of 
macaroni.  .  .  ." 

Maria  Giardini  rose  and  pointed  a  rigid  finger  at  the 
uncle.  "I  shall  suffocate,  I  shall  die,  my  children  will  be 
motherless,  if  I  hear  that  moldy  list  again!  How  many 
pounds  of  macaroni  has  he  eaten?  How  many  gallons  of 
204 


LOST  VALLEY 

oil  has  he  guzzled?  He  brought  with  him,  no  doubt,  from 
his  warehouse,  all  the  bread,  the  fish,  the  meat,  the 
vegetables,  that  have  kept  him  alive — " 

Her  husband  interrupted  her.  "Zio  Pietro  stocked  the 
shop  in  the  early  days — when  the  trade  was  just  starting 
in  a  small  way.  I  had  not  the  money,  Maria.  It  was  not 
a  fine  shop,  then.  It  was  not  much,  but  it  was  the  begin 
ning."  His  great  patient  eyes  spoke  his  trouble. 

"It  is  neither  here  nor  there,"  she  went  on  more  calmly. 
"But  I  cannot  work  myself  into  the  grave  for  nothing. 
A  woman  expects  to  grow  old,  serving  her  husband  and 
bearing  children.  But  she  does  not  expect  to  lose  her 
youth  and  strength,  and  deny  herself  all  pleasure,  for  the 
sake  of  filling  a  mouth  that  can  only  snort  like  a  hyena 
and  eat  like  a  pig — or  to  wait  like  a  servant  on  an  idiot 
girl,  combing  her  hair  and  making  her  clothes  in  place  of 
the  rags  she  brought  with  her." 

The  door  had  been  shut  on  Saint  Lucy.  That  was  a 
danger  signal,  and  Giuseppe  realized  that  the  game  had 
taken  a  new  turn. 

"I  have  brought  much  trouble,  I  see,  into  this  house 
hold."  He  did  not  speak  to  placate:  he  hissed.  "But  I 
am  not  here  for  love.  I  am  here  because  I  have  worked 
like  a  slave  to  get  money  for  Pietro  Giardini.  I  was  a  fool 
ever  to  buy  monkey-flesh  from  him  unless  I  could  buy  it 
outright.  If  he  had  not  bled  me  for  a  year,  I  would  leave 
the  monkey  to  him  and  let  him  thrive  on  its  tricks,  if  he 
could.  If" — he  grew  more  excited — "I  had  the  money, 
I  would  buy  the  last  inch  of  its  carcass  and  dash  it  to 
pieces  on  the  sidewalk.  What  is  a  monkey  to  a  man  like 
me?  A  fellow  like  Pietro  Giardini  should  be  supported  by 
the  state,  among  the  lunatics  and  criminals.  He  defiles  a 
household.  He  need  not  think  that  I  will  bear  this  nagging 
forever.  Sun,  and  rain,  and  hunger  have  I  endured,  and 
all  that  he  might  fatten  in  peace  on  my  sufferings.  Per- 

205 


LOST  VALLEY 

haps  he  would  like  to  lay  claim  to  the  organ  as  well.  It 
might  be  his  child:  it  is  afflicted  with  asthma  like  its 
father.  Pietro  Giardini  thinks  he  owns  everything  he 
has  once  touched.  He  owns  your  groceries;  he  owns  a 
jungle  full  of  monkeys;  he  owns  us  all,  body  and  soul. 
And  I  am  reproached  because  I  come  here  like  an  honest 
man,  telling  all  that  I  do.  You  would  like  to  turn  that 
poor  saint  adrift — yet  you  batten  on  what  she  has  made 
for  you." 

"I  batten  on  nothing,"  Maria  shrieked.  "Zio  Pietro 
may  have  his  pockets  full,  but  I  receive  only  a  few  lire  for 
boarding  the  lot  and  waiting  on  the  girl,  who  is  good 
enough  but  helpless  as  a  baby.  And  now  I  receive  not 
even  those  lire.  It  seems  to  me" — Maria's  eyes  gathered 
fire — "that  if  Zio  Pietro  has  grown  rich,  he  should  pay  the 
board  of  his  partners  while  they  are  idle." 

"I — rich?  I  have  had  only  a  few  centesimi  this  fort 
night,"  Pietro  whined. 

"What  of  that  bag  of  money  I  brought  back  to  you 
from  the  summer?  "  Giuseppe's  glance  was  like  dirty  steel. 

"Those  few  dollars  are  in  the  bank — against  my  old 
age,  when  my  family,  forgetting  all  debts,  turns  me  into 
the  streets  to  beg."  But  Pietro's  body  shifted  uneasily 
as  he  spoke — like  a  goaded  elephant's — and  Giuseppe 
marked  it.  Before,  he  had  not  been  sure.  Now  he  knew. 
The  money  was  still  in  the  house.  He  shut  his  eyes  as  if 
the  scene  had  disgusted  him  to  weariness.  Against  the 
burning  background  of  his  closed  lids  a  street  piano 
glittered. 

"It  is  time  to  go  to  bed."  Carlo  rose,  and  knocked  out 
his  pipe  on  the  back  of  the  kitchen  stove.  "To-morrow 
is  another  day.  I  shall  be  glad  when  the  monkey  is  bought. 
Two  people  should  never  own  one  monkey." 

Giuseppe  had  fallen  suddenly — too  suddenly — into 
sleepy  calm.  He  yawned.  "You  are  right,  Carlo.  A 
206 


LOST  VALLEY 

little  patience  until  the  spring,  and  then,  with  Saint 
Lucy's  help,  I  will  buy  the  rest  of  Taddeo.  You  will  be 
rid  of  this  talk.'*  Pie  stretched  himself  crookedly  and 
prepared  to  mount  the  stairs. 

Pietro,  however,  could  not  let  well  enough  alone.  "  And 
I  must  be  content  to  starve  with  my  handful,  while  he 
grows  rich.  It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  be  old  and  ill,  and  to 
have  your  own  flesh  and  blood  grudge  you  a  mouthful  of 
polenta." 

Not  even  Carlo,  who  held  the  scales  of  justice  in  the 
Giardini  household,  could  be  moved  by  that  whine.  He 
grunted  and  did  not  reply.  But  Maria,  who  had  cooled 
a  little,  turned  crimson  and  kicked  Pietro's  chair  as  she 
passed,  so  that  he  half  staggered  as  he  rose,  while  Giu 
seppe — eyes,  hands,  lips,  all  illustrating  his  disgust  at 
such  hypocrisy — affected  to  retch  over  the  stair  rail.  It 
was  not  a  pretty  gesture,  but  it  soothed  Maria,  who  would 
not  have  stooped  to  do  it  herself.  Pietro  saw  it  out  of  the 
tail  of  his  eye,  and  it  did  not  make  his  breath  come  easier 
for  the  lumbering  ascent. 

An  hour  later,  they  were  all  snoring — Giuseppe,  who 
was  wide  awake,  the  loudest  of  all. 

About  eleven,  Giuseppe  stirred  softly  on  his  cot.  The 
three  boys  were  sleeping  soundly.  Pietro,  banked  against 
dirty  pillows,  was  like  one  drugged.  He  had  half  expected 
an  attack,  but  it  had  not  come.  Giuseppe  rose,  very 
quietly,  and  feeling  his  way  in  the  dark,  crept  over  past 
the  three  boys  to  Zio  Pietro's  bed.  How  much  he  could 
search  was  doubtful.  He  suspected  the  money  was  under 
the  mattress  and  might  therefore  be  inaccessible.  On  the 
other  hand,  it  was  unlikely  that  Pietro  would  keep  it  all 
together.  If  he  could  only  find  the  part  that  was  not 
under  the  mattress!  One  of  the  girls  arranged  the  room 
roughly  before  school — flung  things  about,  and  abed  the 
seldom-washed  bedding  at  the  back  window.  Pietro 

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LOST  VALLEY 

would  not  run  the  risk  of  her  discovering  the  total  sum, 
some  morning  when  he  had  been  prevented  from  removing 
it.  Besides,  he  would  probably  not  keep  all  his  hoard  on 
the  top  floor  of  that  fire  trap.  He  spent  most  of  his 
time  belowstairs.  Giuseppe,  resting  on  his  cot,  thought 
deeply,  with  much  play  of  his  stubby  fingers.  The  stuffed 
chair  in  which  Zio  Pietro  always  sat  ...  it  was  worth 
trying.  The  contents  of  the  till  were  always  removed  at 
night  by  Carlo,  and  he  and  his  wife  slept  on  them.  Be 
sides,  he  would  rather  have  Pietro's  money  than  theirs. 
If  he  could  not  get  Pietro's,  he  would  take  theirs  if  pos 
sible,  but  he  much  preferred  to  rob  his  partner.  It  was 
scarcely  robbing,  when  you  thought  of  it.  Giuseppe,  like 
Pietro  himself,  had  no  patience  with  anyone  who  owned 
the  other  half  of  his  monkey.  Their  resentments  were 
identical.  Outside  the  door  of  the  little  attic  where  Lola 
slept  behind  her  curtain,  Giuseppe  stopped.  A  great 
decision  had  to  be  made:  the  greatest,  perhaps,  strategi 
cally  speaking,  of  his  life. 

If  he  did  not  find  money  downstairs,  he  could  still  go, 
because  he  had  not  been  such  a  fool  as  to  divide  fairly  at 
the  summer's  end.  Still,  he  needed  all  he  could  lay  hands 
on.  Should  he  wait  and  see  what  luck  he  would  have? 
Put  off  his  decision  until  he  knew  where  he  stood  finan 
cially?  His  brow  ran  sweat  while  he  crouched  in  the  dark, 
trying  to  think.  The  memory  of  Maria's  attack  on  Lola 
pushed  him  to  immediate  evasion,  regardless.  The  get 
away  would  have  to  be  made  by  night,  and  one  night  was 
like  another.  Giuseppe  was  not  insensible  to  the  thick 
ening,  thunderous  atmosphere  of  the  household.  The 
play  of  hatred  a  little  while  since,  in  the  kitchen,  had  been 
such  that  he  had  positively  feared.  The  words  were 
nothing;  but  above,  through,  and  beneath  them  had  run 
emotions  that  would  presently  make  words  inadequate. 
All  this  he  felt,  though  he  did  not  phrase  it.  He  knew, 
208 


LOST  VALLEY 

as  well  as  any  expert,  that  next  time,  if  the  veins  on  his 
neck  and  in  his  throat  swelled  and  tightened  any  more 
painfully,  his  arm  would  move  fatally.  Giuseppe  did  not 
want  to  kill — for  every  reason,  he  did  not  wish  to  want  to. 
But  it  would  come.  He  took  credit  to  himself  that  he 
desired  to  abstain  from  murder.  That  fact  sufficed  to  his 
muddy  conscience.  He  did  not  attempt  to  prove  to  him 
self  that  the  reasons  for  his  unwillingness  were  virtuous. 

The  street  piano!  That  was  the  one  object  now  on 
which  his  wishes  were  set.  Everything  else  in  life  fell  into 
a  rough  perspective  to  enhance  that  goal.  Nothing  mat 
tered  except  in  relation  to  this  one  ambition.  Indulging 
his  hatreds  would  certainly  not  pay.  How  could  a  man 
in  jail  acquire,  or  profit  by,  a  street  piano?  If  he  lived 
longer  among  these  devils,  he  would  certainly,  one  day, 
strike.  He  was  no  petticoated  priest,  crammed  with  vows 
and  salt  fish.  He  was  a  man — with  a  future,  too,  per 
Bacco!  The  blood  drummed  in  his  veins.  Still  he  sat 
outside  the  door,  wondering  whether  to  wake  Lola  first 
or  go  down,  before  that,  to  search  the  stuffing  of  Zio 
Pietro's  chair.  And  there  was  none  too  much  time,  for 
they  would  have  to  go  to  the  station  by  devious  ways.  .  .  . 
Presently  his  resolve  was  made.  They  would  go  that 
night,  even  if  he  could  not  find  the  money.  So  he  would 
first  prepare  Lola,  then  descend  with  her  and  Taddeo. 

He  crept  to  Lola's  closet  and  whispered  his  orders. 
The  girl  welcomed  his  words.  She  forgot  the  season,  the 
weather,  and  the  darkness.  They  would  dress  and  go 
forth,  and  perhaps  when  dawn  came  they  would  be,  as  so 
often,  eating  breakfast  beneath  the  trees  by  a  brook,  in 
sight  of  a  little  town.  The  immediate  past  slipped  from 
her;  and  the  deeper  impressions  re-emerged  to  her  notice. 
Giuseppe  laid  his  finger  on  his  lip,  and  she  nodded.  She 
understood.  She  was  to  dress  quickly,  make  no  noise, 
wrap  up  her  belongings  in  a  cloth,  and  follow  him  with 

209 


LOST  VALLEY 

Taddeo  while  he  shouldered  the  organ.  The  organ  was 
down  in  the  shop  place.  It  was  like  so  many  other  times, 
when  they  had  footed  it  away  silently  before  dawn  to 
reach  another  place,  or  cross  their  own  trail.  The  purpose 
of  the  habit  she  knew  nothing  of;  but  it  was  habit,  and 
she  was  broke  to  it.  Dimly,  too,  she  understood  that  she 
would  leave  Zio  Pietro  behind,  and  that  pleased  her. 

Giuseppe  waited  while  she  dressed.  When  she  was 
nearly  ready,  he  descended,  pushing  his  head  inside  the 
curtain  first  to  explain  to  her  by  gesture  that  she  must 
follow  quickly.  He  blew  out  the  candle.  Lola  knew  the 
stairs,  and  in  the  dark  she  would  incline  more  naturally 
to  stealth  and  caution.  He  picked  his  own  way  to  the 
lower  story  and  entered  the  kitchen  writh  its  stale  smells. 
There  he  pulled  the  window  shade  firmly  down  and  lighted 
a  lamp,  nearly  out  of  oil.  Before  he  set  himself  to  search, 
he  walked  into  the  shop,,  unlocked  the  door,  and  set  the 
organ  in  place  against  the  door  jamb,  ready  for  their  exit. 
Then  he  went  back,  and  ripped  and  poked  at  the  stuffed 
chair,  rickety  and  frail  now  under  past  years  of  Pietro 
Giardini's  weight.  A  little  bag,  far  down  between  the 
broken  springs,  proved  to  Giuseppe  that  he  was  a  wise 
man.  A  smirk  of  pure  vanity  showed  him  master  of  him 
self  again. 

A  few  moments  later,  all  lights  extinguished  behind 
them,  the  three,  with  the  organ,  stepped  into  the  faintly 
lighted  silence  of  the  street.  Giuseppe's  last  gesture  inside 
had  been  to  lift  Maria  Giardini's  most  beautiful  silk 
handkerchief  and  tie  it  firmly  about  Lola's  yellow  head. 

They  walked  slowly,  avoiding  the  bright  light  of  street 
corners  and  the  stopping  places  of  surface  cars,  to  the 
nearest  Subway  station.  The  big  clock  above  the  ticket 
window  showed  that  they  had  an  hour  still  before  train 
time.  Walking  through  the  vast  and  filthy  cavern  of 
the  South  Station  train  shed,  Giuseppe  grew  almost 
210 


LOST  VALLEY 

calm  again.  He  had  now  bought  his  tickets,  the  train 
was  there  waiting,  and  the  after-midnight  travelers 
were  such  that  he  and  his  would  never  be  distinguished 
among  them.  He  shouldered  over  to  a  group  of  for 
eigners  who  stood  patiently  beside  indescribable  luggage 
labeled  "Disinfected,"  and  drew  a  free  breath.  They 
would  go  in  just  ahead  of  these  new  cattle;  and  no  one 
would  know  the  difference.  Once  through  the  gate, 
Guiseppe  breathed  with  infinite  relief.  His  heart  veered 
back  to  Saint  Lucy,  and  he  patted  Lola's  shoulder  in 
ecstasy.  Her  ignorance  of  the  morrow  he  did  not  share. 
He  piously  hoped  that,  before  they  experienced  the  pleas 
ures  of  breakfast,  Pietro  and  Maria  would  burst,  with 
sheer  rage,  into  a  thousand  little  pieces. 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

"IT'S  queer  how  little  you  know  of  them,  after  all." 

A  The  young  man  laughed  and  put  his  arm  beneath 
Madge's  elbow  to  guide  her  round  a  crowded  corner. 
"Of  course  they're  not  so  bad  as  the  Chinese  over  in 
Harrison  Street.  They  do  live  aboveground — bar  a 
few  cellars.  And  they're  not  heathen,  really,  though 
they  act  like  it.  What  I  always  say  is  that  a  Dago's  a 
human  being — and  a  Chink  isn't." 

"I've  never  seen  very  many."  Madge  spoke  humbly 
to  the  wisdom  stalking  beside  her. 

Madge  was  a  year  or  two  younger  even  than  the  young 
social  worker  who  accompanied  her,  but  she  felt  far 
older.  Ever  since,  back  in  Siloam,  she  had  realized  that 
her  goal  was  to  be  a  far  one,  she  had  schooled  herself  in 
the  ways  of  patience.  It  took  a  good  deal,  in  these  days, 
to  make  her  cry  out  in  protest.  But  she  did  wish  that 
Miss  Powers  could  have  come  with  her.  Miss  Powers 
had  been  called  away  by  her  mother's  serious  illness, 
and  she  could  only  leave  directions.  The  directions 
were  well  enough;  but  with  Miss  Powers  had  gone  a 
treasure  (now  unavailable)  of  tact,  wisdom,  insight, 
shrewdness.  It  was  only  fair  that  she  should  be  thirty 
years  better  than  the  younger  folk,  since  she  was  thirty 
years  older  .  .  .  but  it  was  hard  that  she  should  have 
been  removed  just  as  the  clew  had  come. 

"You  say  you  don't  speak  any  Italian?"  Madge 
turned  to  her  companion. 

"Just  a  few  words.  I'm  learning.  I  filled  up  on 
economics  and  sociology  in  college.  Languages  are  a 


LOST  VALLEY 

detail — I  mean,  you  can  get  those  any  time.  When 
you  have  a  chance  at  a  man  like  Professor  Lewisohn, 
you  don't  like  to  waste  courses  in  grammar  and  compo 
sition.  It's  the  theory  that  matters — and  the  laboratory 
work  in  method." 

"I  see."  She  did  not  see.  Her  heart  swelled  within 
her.  If  only  Miss  Powers  were  there!  Miss  Powers, 
to  whom  "folks"  seemed  no  mystery,  who  had  twisted 
and  turned  Madge's  story  about  until  the  logic  of  it  was 
clear.  Madge  stood  still,  and  faced  the  youth. 

"But  how  are  we  going  to  talk  to  these  people?  If 
we  are  just  going  to  shout  English  words  at  them — we 
might  as  well  have  had  the  police  in." 

"Oh,  no.  I  don't  think  so.  The  police  would  have 
scared  them,  and  they  would  have  burrowed — or  run. 
Miss  Powers  was  right,  I  think" — her  heart  warmed  to 
him  a  little  for  that.  "The  thing  to  do  was  to  be  pretty 
sure  first,  and  then  go  quietly  and  talk  it  over.  They'll 
come  to  time  a  lot  better  if  you  show  them  in  a  peaceable 
way  that  you  could  make  trouble  and  don't  want  to, 
than  if  you  just  bring  the  trouble  in  on  them." 

"Yes.  But  if  they  don't  speak  English?  And  you 
don't  speak  Italian  any  more  than  I  do." 

"You  see,  Miss  Lockerby" — he  was  very  patient  with 
her — "they  thought  this  at  the  Settlement:  we  mustn't 
go  in  a  bunch.  We  could  have  brought  along  Miss 
Matthews  for  an  interpreter,  but  she  would  have  made 
too  many.  And  the  kids  all  speak  English,  because 
they  go  to  school,  you  see.  We  can  get  hold  of  a  kid 
somewhere,  when  we  get  to  the  house." 

"Wouldn't  it  have  been  better  if  Miss  Matthews  had 
come  instead  of  you — so  she  could  talk?" 

The  young  man  had  a  wry  little  smile  for  the  implica 
tion,  but  he  did  not  feel  annoyed,  for  he  was  a  really 
good  sort.  He  looked  up  at  the  handsome  girl  beside 

213 


LOST  VALLEY 

him  and  smiled — since  Madge  had  been  working  in  the 
box  factory  under  Miss  Williams's  rough-and-ready 
supervision,  she  had  had  better  food,  better  clothes,  and 
some  sleep  at  night,  all  of  which  told  for  beauty.  "You 
see,  Miss  Lockerby,  they  thought  it  best  for  you  to  have 
a  man  along.  There  won't  be  any  trouble,  but  if  there 
should — oh,  well,  they're  not  so  likely  to  start  anything 
if  there's  a  man  there,  I  believe.  And  if  necessary,  I 
could  perhaps  act  more  quickly/' 

"I'm  grateful  to  you,"  she  said  very  quietly.  James 
Follett  saw  that  she  meant  it,  and  was  appeased. 

They  had  reached  the  corner  of  Revere  Street  now, 
and  Madge's  companion  stopped  her.  He  took  a  card 
out  of  his  pocket.  "Pietro  Giardini,  care  of  Carlo 
Giardini,  123.  Grocery  shop,  and  tenement  above," 
he  read  out.  "This  is  our  way.  Our  game  is  to  go  and 
ask  to  see  Pietro  Giardini,  and  tell  him  gently  that  he  is 
being  compromised  by  the  other  man,  eh?  Enable  him 
to  pass  the  buck.  Mustn't  accuse  anybody  until  you 
have  all  your  facts — and  the  police  round  the  corner. 
Meanwhile,  I'll  ask  that  policeman  a  question — rather 
ostentatiously — and  tell  him  to  stand  by,  in  case  anyone 
has  to  be  given  in  charge." 

Before  he  crossed  to  the  policeman,  however,  he  turned 
once  more  to  the  girl  beside  him.  "I  suppose  there's  no 
question  that  she  would  know  you,  after  all  this  time?  I 
understand  that  she  isn't  quite  normal." 

Madge  looked  at  him  directly,  but  as  if  from  a  great 
height.  "She  isn't  normal.  Last  summer,  when  she  left 
me,  she  had  the  brain  of  a  little  child.  Of  course  I  don't 
know  what  they  may  have  done  to  her" — her  lip  trembled 
— "but  I  don't  see  how  they  could  undo  everything.  I 
don't  see  how  Lola  could  help  knowing  me  if  I  once  got  a 
chance  to  see  her,  right  face  to  face.  I  used  to  be  the  only 
thing  she  loved." 


LOST  VALLEY 

"I  see.  Well,  you've  got  to  have  that  chance,  it  seems 
to  me.  I'll  just  speak  to  the  officer." 

After  a  moment's  conversation,  the  policeman,  twirling 
a  magnificent  mustache,  pointed  his  thumb  gingerly 
down  the  street,  then  turned  an  over-disinterested  back, 
and  paced  away  on  his  beat. 

It  was  Saturday  afternoon — Madge's  half  holiday  from 
her  work — and  even  hi  this  cold  weather,  the  street  was 
littered  with  children.  Rain  had  fallen,  and  frozen  where 
it  fell,  and  the  youth  of  Revere  Street  was  improvising 
sleds  where  it  could.  The  sidewalks  were  blocked  with 
small  children  in  boxes  drawn  by  older  ones,  over  the 
ragged  ice.  Some  wise  souls  were  chipping  away  at  it  to 
clear  their  own  house  fronts.  The  steam  rose  from  a 
peanut  stand  in  a  doorway.  A  shawled  crone,  her  face 
puckered  with  cold,  stopped  dead  in  front  of  them,  chump- 
ing  her  jaws  and  sniffing  at  the  sun.  They  made  a  detour 
round  her  and  drew  up  at  the  door  of  Carlo  Giardini's 
shop.  In  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  the  young  man  wished 
Miss  Powers  were  in  his  place.  Professor  Lewisohn  had 
never  set  his  classes  this  problem. 

"Oh,  if  I  could  speak  to  them!"  Madge  groaned  it  to 
herself,  unthinking,  but  young  Follett  heard.  It  chilled 
him.  He  had  perhaps  taken  too  much  on  himself,  arrang 
ing  this  little  party.  He  turned  to  Madge  on  the  very 
threshold. 

"Shall  we  go  back  and  fetch  Miss  Matthews?  I'll  do 
it  in  a  jiffy  if  you  want  me  to.  Then  I'll  sort  of  drape  my 
self  in  the  background." 

But  Madge  shook  her  head.  "I  couldn't  wait  another 
minute  now.  I  couldn't  possibly  go  away  from  this  place 
till  I've  found  out  something."  She  pushed  open  the  door 
of  the  shop,  and  at  the  sound  of  the  little  automatic  bell, 
Carlo  Giardini,  who  had  been  warming  himself  at  the  oil 
stove,  stepped  behind  the  counter. 
15  215 


LOST  VALLEY 

For  one  moment  Madge  looked  about  the  shop,  standing 
alert,  fixed,  tense,  like  a  bird  dog  on  the  scent.  If  this 
was  indeed  Lola's  habitation,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
must  sense  it,  must  know  by  sacred  intuitions.  But  no 
hint  came,  and  she  relaxed. 

Carlo  waited  politely.  Sometimes  Americans  came  to 
the  shops  of  the  quarter  for  Italian  foodstuffs.  Yet  the 
young  woman  did  not  look  like  that.  He  began  to  grow 
a  little  nervous,  though  his  conscience  was  clear.  No 
man  could  have  lived  through  the  tempest  of  the  preceding 
day  untouched.  He  expected  anything,  now. 

Madge  brought  her  gaze  to  bear  on  him — looked  di 
rectly  into  his  patient  eyes.  Then  she  lowered  her  own 
glance  to  a  slip  of  paper  that  she  held.  Confronted  with 
her  climax,  she  found  the  world  rocking  about  her:  the 
little  slip  was  her  straw  to  clutch,  her  hold  on  reality. 

"Pietro  Giardini,"  she  read.  Miss  Matthews  had 
coached  her  in  pronunciation  of  the  name.  "Pietro 
Giardini?"  The  second  time  she  made  it  a  question, 
looking  again  at  Carlo,  her  whole  face  inquiring  of  him. 

Carlo  grunted  in  perplexed  pain.  It  was  not  even  a 
relief,  really,  to  have  the  demand  centered  on  Pietro.  If 
trouble  came  of  all  this  business,  of  course  it  would  be 
Pietro  that  drew  it  to  them.  Pietro  was  the  lightning 
rod.  They  were  innocent  of  partnership  with  the  unspeak 
able  Giuseppe.  He  did  not  know  whether  to  be  glad  or 
sorry  that  Pietro  was  invisible,  tied  to  his  armchair  up 
stairs  by  the  window,  with  one  of  the  worst  attacks  ever. 

Carlo  began  to  explain,  in  Italian,  that  his  uncle  was 
ill,  very  ill.  Could  they  put  off  their  business  until  he  had 
recovered?  It  was  not  personal  guilt  that  made  the  sweat 
stand  out  on  his  forehead:  the  mild  man  had  been  broken 
by  the  terrible  hours  that  had  passed.  He  saw  then  that 
they  did  not  understand,  and  in  despair  waved  his  arms  as 
if  to  clutch  some  English  out  of  the  air. 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Sick.    Verra  sick.    You  come-a  back." 

Young  Follett  doubted  the  sickness  entirely.  He  was 
filled  with  disgust  at  his  own  jauntiness,  his  own  self-con 
fidence.  He  ought  to  have  brought  Miss  Matthews.  For 
he  could  see  that  Madge  would  not  move  until  something 
had  happened.  She  looked  built  into  the  scene;  she  was 
rooted  like  a  tree. 

A  middle-sized  head  poked  itself  through  the  back 
door  of  the  shop. 

"Hi,  there!"  He  held  up  his  finger.  "Come  in  here  a 
minute." 

Anna  Giardini,  aged  ten,  appeared  then  in  person. 

"Whatcherwant?" 

"I  want  you.    You  speak  English?" 

"Sure." 

"Where  is  Pietro  Giardini?" 

"Sick.  Don'  breathe."  She  put  her  hand  to  her 
throat,  gagged  loudly,  and  rocked  her  head  back  and  forth 
to  simulate  Zio  Pietro's  manners  and  customs.  It  was  not 
so  bad  as  Zio  Pietro,  but  it  was  bad  enough. 

"Perhaps  he  is  sick,"  Madge  ventured  in  a  whisper. 
The  histrionic  gift  is  limited  in  Lost  Valley,  and  she  was 
greatly  affected  by  Anna's  performance. 

"Humph!    Perhaps  so,"  the  young  man  muttered. 

Young  Follett  sat  down  on  the  low  counter,  swinging 
his  leg.  He  put  one  hand  in  his  pocket  and  audibly 
disturbed  some  small  change  there.  Then  he  smiled 
widely  and  pleasantly  at  the  girl.  "What's  your  name?" 

"Anna  Giardini."     She  moved  a  little  nearer. 

"Well,  see  here,  Anna,  we  just  want  to  ask  a  few  ques 
tions.  Is  Pietro  Giardini  a  relation  of  yours?" 

She  pointed  at  Carlo.     "My  father's  uncle." 

"Your  great-uncle.  I  see.  Well,  he  has  a  monkey, 
hasn't  he?" 

Anna  shook  her  dark  head  violently.  "Not  no  more." 

217 


LOST  VALLEY 

"He  did  have  one?" 

Anna  shrugged,     "One  half." 

"One  half?     What  do  you  mean?" 

"  Giuseppe,  he  had  part,  and  Zio  Pietro  had  part.  Now 
Giusep',  he's  got  it  all."  \ 

Carlo  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  Giuseppe's  name 
pricked  his  attention  intolerably.  He  leaned  across  the 
counter  to  his  daughter,  who  had  stepped  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  visitors  until  she  was  within  easy  reach  of 
the  hand  Follett  held  in  his  pocket.  Between  Carlo 
and  Anna,  rose  a  flood  of  talk  that  beat  torturingly  on 
Madge's  uncomprehending  ears. 

"Oh,  find  out,  can't  you,  about  Lola!"  she  cried  low 
to  young  Follett.  He  cut  through  the  surge  of  Italian 
with  another  question  to  Anna.  The  money  tinkled 
louder.  His  fingers  ached,  jingling  the  coin  in  that 
cramped  hidden  space.  "Does  Giuseppe  live  here?" 

"He's  gone  away — flown  the  coop."  Anna  now  looked 
straight  and  shamelessly  at  the  pocket  itself. 

"When?" 

Anna  Giardini  put  out  her  hand  behind  her,  and  Follett 
slipped  a  quarter  into  it.  But  all  the  while  she  addressed 
her  father  volubly  in  their  own  tongue. 

Madge,  who  could  bear  it  no  longer,  broke  in:  "When 
did  the  man  go  away  with  the  monkey?"  She  looked 
at  Anna  coldly — too  coldly  for  tact;  but  rigidity  was 
her  salvation.  If  she  slackened  the  leash  ever  so  little, 
she  felt  she  would  simply  dissolve. 

"Giuseppe?  He  went  yesterday — in  the  night  of 
Thursday,  I  mean.  While  we  were  all  in  bed." 

"Where  did  he  go?" 

Anna  resented  the  involuntary  severity  of  Madge's 
tone.  She  could  not  know  that  Madge  was  austere 
because  her  only  alternative  was  a  floppy  tearfulness. 
Young  Follett  felt  uneasily  that  Miss  Lockerby  was 
218 


LOST  VALLEY 

taking  the  wrong  tack.     She  would  better  have  left  it 
to  him,  after  all. 

"We  dunno  where  he  went.  We  don't  care.  He's 
a  pig."  Anna  spat  into  the  shop  cuspidor. 

"Did" — the  blood  came  painfully  into  Madge's  face 
— "did  he  have  a  young  girl  with  him?" 

The  question  was  put.  For  Madge,  even  for  young 
Follett,  the  air  throbbed.  They  had  come  at  last  ta 
the  very  brink. 

Anna  Giardini  smoothed  her  crisp  hair  idly,  and  turned 
her  back  on  the  strangers.  She  hissed  out  a  few  sen 
tences  to  her  father,  and  waited  for  her  cue. 

Carlo  Giardini  was  hard  beset.  Quite  simply  and 
archaically,  he  searched  the  perplexing  situation  to  see 
if  he  could  divine  the  answer  that  would  best  serve  his 
family  interests.  He  cared  nothing  whatever  for 
Giuseppe,  not  much  for  Uncle  Pietro,  very  little  for 
himself:  immensely  for  the  peace  and  prosperity  of 
Maria  and  the  children.  It  was  not  Giuseppe  these 
people  wanted;  it  was — surprisingly  enough,  after  all 
this  time — the  girl.  If  trouble  came  to  him  and  his, 
it  would  be  because  they  had  kept  the  girl  there  for 
Giuseppe.  He  was  outraged,  and  he  wondered  stolidly 
how  to  fling  all  blame  on  Giuseppe  without  involving 
wife  and  offspring.  But  he  must  answer  something.  .  .  . 
Carlo  spoke  a  few  sentences  to  Anna,  gesticulating; 
then  turned  to  young  Follett  and  shook  his  head  violently. 

Anna,  lifting  some  chewing  gum  from  a  case,  thrust 
it  into  her  mouth  and  began  to  work  at  it.  She  tossed 
the  answer  back  at  them,  when  that  most  impudent  of 
processes  was  well  under  way. 

"My  father  says,  tell  you  we  never  saw  no  skirt  round 
with  Giusep'!" 

The  quick  tears  drew  Madge's  eyelids  down.  Her 
proud  shoulders  sagged  a  little. 

219 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Humph!  I  don't  believe  it,  young  lady.*'  Young 
Follett  voiced  his  incredulity  chaffingly,  looking  Anna 
straight  in  the  eye.  But  she  chewed  away  with  non 
committal  face.  "  Guess  I'll  have  to  go  up  and  see  your 
sick  uncle." 

Anna  could  take  care  of  that  herself,  without  appealing 
to  her  father.  She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "He's 
awful  sick.  Giusep*  stole  all  his  money.  He  can't 
talk.  I  tell  you  he  don't  breathe,  hardly."  She  imitated 
Zio  Pietro  again.  "Like-a  that." 

Young  Follett  turned  to  Madge.  "If  this  other  man 
stole  their  money,  they'd  be  willing  to  peach  on  him, 
you'd  think,  wouldn't  you? — if  he  really  had  your  sister 
along." 

He  spoke  very  low,  but  Anna's  quick  ears  caught  the 
word  "sister."  Except  for  removing  her  gaze  from 
Follett  to  Madge,  however,  she  gave  no  sign  of  interest. 
Even  when  her  father  began  to  mutter  to  her  again,  she 
still  stared  at  Madge,  though  she  listened  to  him. 

"He  says  you  can  look  all  through  the  house.  There 
ain't  no  girl  here,  and  Giusep',  he  never  had  one.  He 
ran  away  with  the  monkey  and  the  organ  and  Pietro's 
money.  In  the  night,  Thursday  night." 

Madge's  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  loose  board  in  the  floor 
at  her  feet.  She  might  have  been  mesmerized,  or  thinking 
with  painful  concentration. 

"Why  did  he  run  away?"  Follett  asked. 

"  They  fight  like  mad  Thursday  night.  Giusep',  he  didn't 
want  to  pay  the  monkey  money  to  Uncle  Pietro.  Nor  he 
didn't  pay  his  board  either.  They  had  a  row." 

"Who?" 

Anna  waved  her  arms.    "  Ever'body." 

"Some  of  the  children  in  the  street  say  they've  seen  a 
light-haired  girl  here  for  a  long  time." 

Anna  rolled  her  gum  to  the  other  side  of  her  mouth. 
220 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Some  o'  them  kids  is  awful  liars.  Giusep*  don't  let  'em 
play  with  the  monkey,  and  they  yell  after  us  kids  on  the 
way  to  school." 

This  was  pure  invention,  but  Anna  thought  exceedingly 
well  of  it.  She  was  rather  sorry  her  father  had  chosen 
to  deny  everything.  She  had  a  notion  she  could  have  got 
a  good  deal  of  small  change  out  of  the  young  American 
for  telling  everything  she  knew — and  more.  Denial  in 
toto  did  not  give  her  much  of  a  chance.  But  she  would 
do  her  best. 

"What  do  you  think?"  Follett  whispered  in  Madge's 
ear.  "Had  we  better  get  the  house  searched?  I'm  afraid 
the  other  man  has  gone,  you  know.  Or  do  you  think  I'd 
better  force  my  way  up  to  the  sick  uncle?  If  I  could  get 
him  without  the  others'  getting  at  him  first,  I  might  find 
out  something." 

Madge  shook  her  head.  "You'll  never  find  out  any 
thing  without  being  able  to  understand  what  they  say  to 
each  other.  And  now  it's  too  late — they've  had  a  chance 
to  talk  together  and  make  up  their  story.  I  don't  know 
what  to  do.  Do  you  remember  the  name  of  the  family 
that  brought  the  news  to  the  Settlement?  They  might 
know  whether  the  man  really  did  steal  money,  and  run 
away,  and  all  that." 

Young  Follett  bit  his  lip.  "I'm  afraid  I  didn't  write  it 
down.  I  only  got  this  address." 

Madge  turned  to  face  him  squarely.  Her  eyes  were 
now  lifted  from  the  floor.  "  I  think  the  best  thing  you  can 
do,  Mr.  Follett,  is  to  go  back  to  the  Settlement  and  bring 
Miss  Matthews — if  she  hasn't  gone  out.  Perhaps  if  we 
could  tell  this  man  that  we  don't  want  to  hurt  him — only 
to  find  out  about  Lola — they'd  tell  us  more." 

"Of  course  it  may  be  all  false,  about  the  fair-haired 
girl."  Follett  was  irresolute. 

"Of  course  it  may."  It  was  hard  for  Madge  to  keep 

221 


LOST  VALLEY 

her  voice  to  a  whisper,  and  she  raised  it  a  little,  to  a  tone 
less  murmur.  "But  I  can't  just  go  away.  Perhaps  the 
man  hasn't  gone,  either;  perhaps  they're  hiding  him — 
and  Lola.  Don't  you  see?  If  there's  one  lie,  there  may  be 
a  dozen.  You  can  go  and  get  Miss  Matthews,  if  you  want 
to.  Perhaps  it  would  be  the  best  thing  to  do.  But  please 
hurry." 

"If  I  go,  you'll  have  to  come,  too." 

Madge  walked  over  to  the  shop  door,  whither  he  fol 
lowed  her.  To  her  mounting  emotion,  whispers  were  now 
quite  impossible.  "I  sha'n't  stir  from  here.  Don't  you 
realize  that  if  Lola  is  here,  they  could  smuggle  her  out 
while  we  were  gone?" 

"But  I  don't  like  to  leave  you  alone." 

Madge  looked  back  at  the  patient,  perspiring  Carlo, 
the  brat  Anna.  "I'm  safe  as  church  here,"  she  said.  "I 
guess  you  don't  know  some  of  the  places  I've  been.  It's 
broad  daylight,  and  the  street  is  full." 

"Promise  me  you  won't  go  upstairs,  whatever  happens." 

The  weariness  in  Madge's  face  was  nearly  disgust. 
This  young  man  was  almost  more  than  she  could  bear. 
He  had  spoiled  everything  from  the  beginning.  Even 
now,  if  he  would  only  go,  perhaps  she  could  do  some 
thing.  She  had  no  idea  what:  she  felt  only  that  nothing, 
ever,  would  be  accomplished  so  long  as  this  glib  young 
man  stuck  about.  He  might  have  made  it  impossible  for 
her  to  do  anything,  but  at  least  she  must  get  rid  of  him 
before  she  could  even  think. 

"Never  mind  me.  Go  and  get  Miss  Matthews,  and 
find  those  children  if  you  can.  And  hurry.  I'll  wait 
here." 

Follett  was  stung  by  failure.  He  felt  rather  a  fool,  and 
the  instinct  in  him  was  the  stronger  to  leave  the  girl  to 
her  own  folly.  Of  course  she  was  safe  enough — especially 
as  he  could  warn  the  policeman  at  the  corner — and  per- 


LOST  VALLEY 

haps  the  best  thing  was  for  her  to  try  it  alone  and  see  just 
how  far  she  got. 

"Don't  make  'em  angry,"  he  pleaded. 

"They  don't  look  very  angry,  do  they?  It's  not  their 
being  angry  I'm  afraid  of:  it's  their  holding  their  tongues, 
or  telling  me  lies.  Don't  let's  lose  any  more  time."  Her 
look  was  the  equivalent  of  a  push,  and  he  found  himself 
on  the  sidewalk  without  quite  knowing  why  he  had  not 
protested  longer. 

Madge  turned  slowly  and  faced  the  shop  again.  Carlo 
had  gone  back  into  the  kitchen  and  shut  the  door.  Anna 
remained  on  watch.  The  two  looked  at  each  other  warily 
for  a  moment.  Then  Madge,  with  no  warning  from  her 
own  nerves,  broke  down.  She  sank,  huddled,  on  a  stool 
and  laid  her  head  on  the  crowded  counter,  sobbing  vio 
lently.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  defenseless  than 
that  blinded,  shaking  form.  Anna  Giardini  came  nearer 
and  inspected  at  her  leisure  the  ribbon  on  Madge's  hat, 
the  back  of  her  coat,  the  way  her  hair  grew  at  the  nape 
of  her  neck.  Madge  Lockerby's  tears  were  not  so  much 
the  expression  of  temperament,  as  tribute  to  the  situation 
itself.  She  had  fought  every  inch  of  a  hard  way;  she  had 
needed  every  ounce  of  the  courage  that  had  mounted  al 
most  insolently  within  her,  that  far  day  in  Siloam.  Her 
feet  had  trod  strange  paths,  and  trodden  them  in  vain. 
She  had  felt  for  a  few  days  as  if  she  were  at  last  near  Lola : 
Miss  Powers  had  smiled,  as  at  a  problem  solved.  And 
now,  on  the  very  threshold,  she  was  balked  by  human 
stupidity,  and  by  the  maddening  human  habit  of  saying 
the  thing  which  is  not. 

Anna  parked  her  gum  on  the  under  side  of  a  shelf,  rolled 
her  eyes,  and  sighed  heavily  with  boredom.  She  wished 
her  father  would  come  back  to  relieve  guard.  Anna  did 
not  exactly  pity  the  young  woman  who  was  sobbing.  She 
had  contempt  for  anyone  who  cried  except  for  being  in- 

223 


LOST  VALLEY 

suited  or  hit.  They  had  certainly  not  insulted  the  young 
woman,  far  less  hit  her.  Yet  she  would  like  to  stop  the 
crying. 

"Uncle  Pietro,  he's  really  sick,"  she  announced. 

Madge  turned  blindly  to  the  voice,  lifting  a  sodden  face. 

"Maybe  in  a  few  days  you  could  see  him.  He  can't 
talk  now.  But  he  don't  know  where  Giuseppe  went. 
That's  what  make  him  sick.  Giuseppe  ran  away  in  the 
night  with  the  money  and  the  monk'  and  the  organ.  We 
'ain't  got  no  use  for  Giusep'." 

Madge  laid  her  head  on  the  counter  again.  In  a  mo 
ment,  perhaps,  she  would  have  strength  to  question.  The 
little  bell  rang  crazily.  The  shop  door  opened  to  admit 
Maria  Giardini  with  parcels.  Anna  burst  into  explanation. 
At  the  sound  of  the  irruption,  the  second  voice,  the 
Italian  talk,  Madge  raised  her  head  again,  holding  it  a 
little  dizzily  as  she  faced  them.  She  wiped  her  face  dry, 
though  she  still  gasped  and  hiccoughed  from  the  effect  of 
her  wild  weeping.  If  she  could  only  understand  what  they 
said!  Her  wrath  rose  against  young  Follett,  and  the 
wrath  helped  her  to  take  an  initiative  again.  She  couldn't 
make  things  worse  than  he  had  made  them. 

Presently  she  gathered  her  strength  and  spoke,  cutting 
straight  across  their  talk.  She  noticed  that  Maria's  face, 
too,  bore  signs  of  ravage — as  how  should  it  not,  since  she 
had  stared  twenty-four  hours  on  end  into  the  Red  Mist  of 
Anger?  Maria  had  her  voice  back  to-day,  but  it  would 
be  a  week  before  her  complexion  recovered  from  all  that 
shrieking  and  weeping. 

"Is  that  your  mother?" 

Anna  nodded  at  her. 

"Tell  her  that  all  I  want  is  to  find  my  sister.  I  think 
she  went  off  last  summer  with  the  man  you  call  Giuseppe, 
who  had  the  monkey.  We've  traced  her  that  far.  She 
has  light  hair  and  a  fair  skin  .  .  .  she  used  to  be  pretty  . . . 


LOST  VALLEY 

and  she  isn't  quite  right  in  her  mind."  Madge,  with  a 
quick  sense  of  shame,  tapped  her  forehead  to  make  her 
meaning  clearer.  "She  saw  the  monkey  up  home.  We 
think  she  followed  to  Boston.  I  thought  you'd  tell  me  if 
you'd  ever  seen  her,  so  I  could  find  her  and  take  her  home. 
I  don't  want  to  hurt  anybody — unless  the  man  hurt  her." 

Anna  translated  to  her  mother,  and  the  torrent  of  Maria 
Giardini's  reply  was  deafening.  Madge  could  see  that 
Anna  protested  .  .  .  and  that  her  mother  spoke  more 
sternly.  Not  understanding  was  an  agony.  .  .  .  The  child 
shrank,  cowed  and  sullen,  before  whatever  it  was  her 
mother  was  bidding  her  do. 

"Then  I  will  tell  her,  miserable  creature,"  Maria  was 
saying.  "Your  father  is  a  fool — a  good  man,  but  a  fool." 

"You  can't." 

"Then  tell  her,  you.  And  speak  slow,  that  I  may 
understand  if  you  say  what  /  say." 

Anna  pouted  miserably.  "My  father,"  she  began,  "is 
a  good  man,  but  a  fool.  My  mother  says  so." 

"Yes?"    Madge  hardly  dared  to  breathe. 

"My  mother  asks  was  your  sister  like  a  Madonna?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  she  have  long  gold  hair  and  no  sense?"  Anna 
was  putting  off  the  evil  moment. 

"Yes—" 

"My  mother  says" — Anna  turned  her  head  away — 
"she  come  here  with  Giusep'  three  month  ago." 

"Does  she  know  where  she  is  now?"  There  are  no 
words  to  measure  the  passion  of  Madge's  query.  It 
almost  choked  her  as  she  spoke  the  common  words. 

"Of  course  not.  I  told  you  Giusep'  ran  away,  with 
the  money,  andthe  monk'  and  the  organ,  in  the  night." 

"But  does  she  know  where  he  put  her,  here — here  in 
Boston?  Oh,  please  to  remember!"  It  was  more  a 
prayer  to  God  than  to  Maria  Giardini. 

225 


LOST  VALLEY 

Then  Anna  realized  the  misunderstanding  between 
them.  Madge  did  not  realize  that  the  girl  had  not  only 
come  to  them,  but  stayed  with  them.  Anna  hoped  to 
be  spared  too  many  words,  and  she  was  more  sullen  than 
ever.  But  her  mother,  who  cared  for  only  one  thing, 
that  Giuseppe  should  be  made  to  suffer,  spurred  her  on. 
"You  have  not  told  her  all.  I  am  listening,'*  she  warned 
her  daughter. 

There  was  no  hope  of  ease  for  Anna  Giardini's  soul. 
She  made  a  face  at  the  words  that  must  fill  her  mouth. 
"She  was  here,  in  the  shop.  She  slept  upstairs  with 
the  monkey.  She  loved  the  monkey.  My  mother  was 
good  to  her." 

"But  you  said — "  It  was  hard  for  Madge  to  believe 
in  news  so  discouragingly,  unconvincingly  heralded. 

Anna  was  exasperated.  "My  father  was  frightened. 
He  is  a  very  good  man.  He  wouldn't  hurt  a  fly.  So 
he  told  me  to  say  there  wasn't  any  girl.  My  mother, 
she  think  if  you  could  get  Giuseppe  arrested,  he'd  have 
to  give  back  the  money  he  stole,  and  maybe  go  to  prison, 
too.  She  wants  Giusep'  in  prison.  So  she  says  to  tell 
you  he  had  the  girl." 

"And  he  took  her  with  him?" 

"Sure  he  took  her.  She  wouldn't  leave  the  monkey. 
He  never  paid  her  board,  either." 

This  last  suggestion,  to  do  Maria  Giardini  justice,  had 
not  come  from  her.  It  was  Anna's  own  idea:  partly 
to  disparage,  in  Madge's  eyes,  the  girl  she  was  making 
such  a  fuss  about — the  girl  whom  Anna's  parents  had 
fed  and  sheltered.  Anna  knew  a  good  deal  about  charity : 
she  was  not  unaware  of  the  prestige  pertaining  to  the 
person  who  bestows  it. 

"I  would  pay  for  that  if  I  could  only  find  her.  When 
did  he  bring  her  here?" 

Anna  thought.     "September." 
220 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Did  he  say  where  he  found  her?"  Madge  was  sure, 
fatally  sure,  that  the  girl  was  Lola;  but  she  owed  it  to 
her  doom  to  ask  every  painful  question,  to  probe  every 
bit  of  sordid  evidence,  to  touch  bottom  in  the  slough. 

Maria's  swollen  eyes  followed  every  motion  of  her  lips. 
She  could  make  out  simple  words.  "Tell  her" — she 
bade  Anna — "his  lies.  Tell  her  about  Saint  Lucy." 

Anna  was  exasperated  afresh.  She  had  never  believed 
in  that  Saint  Lucy  stuff.  She  resented  her  mother's 
credulity.  Not  that  her  mother  believed  it  now;  but 
she  had  been  fool  enough.  .  .  .  Twisting  her  shoulders, 
she  uttered  her  disgust  in  the  language  of  skepticism. 
"Aw,  can  it!"  A  smart  slap  straightened  her  shoulders 
for  her.  Well,  if  her  mother  insisted  on  making  a 
laughing-stock  of  herself  .  .  .  but  parents  were  a  trial. 

"We  dunno.  Up  in  the  country  somewhere.  Giusep* 
was  off  with  Taddeo  all  summer." 

"Taddeo?"  Madge  heard  the  name  of  her  antagonist 
for  the  first  time. 

"That's  the  name  of  the  monk'.  He  came  back  in 
September,  and  he  said  Saint  Lucy  sent  him  the  girl  to 
make  money  for  him  and  Taddeo.  My  mother — she's 
very  religious,  an'  she  believed  it."  Anna  grimaced  her 
scorn. 

"Did  she  tell  you  her  name?"  Madge  clung  to  the 
counter,  for  she  was  nearly  spent. 

The  child  pursed  her  lips.  "She  never  said  anythin'. 
She  was  a  softy." 

Maria  stepped  forward  and  shook  Madge's  arm. 
"Her  name-a?  Wat's  'er  name-a?" 

"Lola — "  It  came  like  a  dying  exhalation — that 
formula,  that  motto. 

"I  hear  it — she  sleep — she  speak,  in  dream,  'Lo-la.'  " 
Maria's  English  gave  out,  but  she  quivered  with  the 
intolerable  revelation.  "You'  sees-ter?" 

227 


LOST  VALLEY 

Madge  nodded.  The  older  woman  lifted  her  arms 
in  air,  crisped  her  fingers,  and  gazed  through  the  shop 
ceiling  straight  up  to  the  Heavenly  Powers.  "Giuseppe! 
A  devil!  A  peeg!"  Then  the  difficult  English  broke  up 
and  melted  into  great  torrents  of  Italian,  while  with 
terrible  ease  she  characterized  Giuseppe,  and  named 
the  torments  she  would  fain  invoke  for  him.  It  went 
on  like  an  incantation,  and  her  stained  and  ravaged  face 
lent  power  to  the  scene.  It  would  presently  be  over, 
and  Maria's  surcharged  breast  would  feel  better  for 
the  emotional  purge:  it  would  be  forgotten,  like  any 
purge.  But  a  Lost  Valley  Lockerby  could  not  know 
that,  and  Madge  watched  the  swaying  of  the  possessed 
body,  that  caldron  of  spouting  curses,  in  sheer  terror. 
This  tutelage  Lola  had  known.  .  .  .  Love  came  back 
to  her,  and  pity.  Before  her  sense  could  register  silence, 
as  the  fit  spent  itself,  she  was  engulfed  in  a  vast,  wet 
embrace.  The  fury's  wet  cheek  was  pressed  against 
her  own;  those  terrible  arms  were  fast  about  her;  she 
felt  the  fat  body  pressing  hers.  Everything  was  sud 
denly  very  still:  she  could  hardly  see  for  the  thick  sym 
pathy  that  enfolded  her,  a  sympathy  somehow  all  flesh. 
.  .  .  Very  sick,  she  held  herself  rigid.  Something 
warned  her  not  to  throw  off  this  pulpy  creature  with 
violence.  She  twisted  and  turned  her  head  for  air,  for 
light.  It  was  the  worst  moment  she  had  yet  known. 
Madge  cannot  be  blamed  for  not  fathoming  Maria  Giar- 
dini:  she  had  never  yet  encountered  a  human  being  as 
natural  as  that,  a  soul  without  compartments — one  vast 
sola  to  house  all  the  emotions,  day  and  night. 

She  got  free  of  the  embrace  at  last.  They  were  real 
tears  that  slobbered  Maria  Giardini's  face:  she  had  di 
vined  the  maternal  impulse  in  the  girl  who  sought  her 
sister,  and  her  own  opulent  maternity  had  responded  to 
it.  But  she  loved  her  better  for  the  hope  that  she  might 
228 


LOST  VALLEY 

collaborate  to  avenge  them  all  upon  the  thief,  Giuseppe. 
Maria  hated  Pietro  for  hiding  the  money,  but  she  hated 
Giuseppe  more  for  stealing  it.  Anyone  whom  Giuseppe 
had  wronged  was  her  blood-sister.  All  Madge,  gathering 
calm  after  the  nauseating  onslaught,  could  perceive  was 
that  somehow  Maria  Giardini  was  her  friend.  Her  senses 
recovered  from  the  horror  of  being  handled  by  this 
creature.  She  rose  and  put  a  little  distance  between  her 
self  and  the  others.  Anna,  during  the  scene,  had  re 
covered  her  gum. 

"Do  you  know  where  he  went?" 

Maria  turned  to  her  daughter — she  was  too  shaken  to 
understand  any  English.  Anna  gave  her  the  fruit  of  the 
family  researches. 

"No.  We  think  maybe  N*  Yawk.  Somebody  said 
they  seen  him  in  the  station." 

The  door  at  the  back  opened,  and  Carlo  Giardini,  who 
had  been  ministering  to  Zio  Pietro,  reappeared.  He 
looked  from  one  to  the  other,  helpless. 

"I  told  her,"  he  murmured  anxiously  to  his  wife,  "that 
we  had  never  seen  any  girl  with  Giuseppe." 

Anna's  grimace,  which  was  very  expressive,  corroborated 
the  unlucky  fact.  His  wife's  jaw  dropped.  Consternation 
and  scorn  and  loyalty,  in  a  disconcerting  blend,  held  her 
silent. 

Anna,  staring  at  the  shop  window,  saw  the  young  man 
of  gifts  return  with  another  woman.  The  shop  bell  tinkled 
as  they  entered.  ' 

Miss  Matthews  stepped  forward  with  an  ingratiating 
phrase  on  her  lips.  But  Madge  held  up  her  hand.  "You 
needn't  bother.  I've  found  out  about  it.  Lola  was  here 
all  the  fall.  The  man  has  gone  now,  and  taken  her  and 
the  monkey  with  him.  He  stole  all  their  money,  and  they 
hate  him.  They  don't  know  where  he  is,  but  they  think 
he  has  gone  to  New  York.  I  don't  believe  you  even  need 

229 


LOST  VALLEY 

to  ask  the  neighbors.  I  think  it's  all  true.  It  would  be 
true — that  I'd  come  just  too  late.  I'll  wait  and  see 
Miss  Powers  when  she  comes  back,  but  I'm  sure  I  know. 
It's  the  way  things  are"  Her  deep  voice  emphasized  the 
law.  "Lola  was  near  me  all  that  while;  and  when  I 
finally  got  track  of  her,  the  devil  just  stepped  in  and  took 
her  out  of  my  reach.  It's  been  that  way  from  the  begin 
ning.  It's  going  to  be  that  way.  I  don't  know  how 
long.  .  .  .  Never  mind  these  people  now.  I  know  it's  true. 
We'll  just  go  home,  now."  She  turned  at  the  door  to 
waft  a  faint  smile  to  the  Giardinis.  She  hated  them  all, 
Maria  perhaps  the  most,  but  caution  told  her  she  might 
have  need  of  them  again.  The  finality  of  her  words  im 
pressed  her  friends.  James  Follett  was  disgusted,  Miss 
Matthews  flutteringly  disappointed,  but  now  they  could 
only  follow.  It  was  supremely  Miss  Lockerby's  affair. 


Book  III 
THE  DULCIMER 

CHAPTER  ONE 

THE  sinister  crook  of  Doyers  Street  out  of  Pell,  before 
it  emerges  on  the  normality  of  Chatham  Square,  is 
perhaps  the  most  forbidding  vignette  in  modern  China 
town.  Jee  Gam,  however,  was  in  no  wise  oppressed  by  it, 
for  he  was  blind.  Nor  did  he  object  to  spending  his  days 
in  a  less  than  half-lighted  cellar,  for,  again,  he  was  blind. 
In  the  morning  he  was  escorted  thither,  from  the  rookery 
where  he  slept,  by  a  very  small  Chinese  boy;  late  in  the 
evening  some  one  usually  dropped  in  to  lead  him  back  to 
the  rookery,  where  in  the  crowded  room  he  got  the  few 
hours'  light  sleep  of  old  age.  The  cellar  contained  little 
besides  a  half  dozen  wooden  chairs,  a  low  cushioned  seat 
for  Jee  Gam,  and  the  table  that  held  his  treasure.  It  was 
a  delicate  thing,  with  jade  and  ivory  inlay,  strings  like 
fine  gold  hairs,  trembling  ivory-tipped  sticks  that  beat 
the  music  out — Jee  Gam's  dulcimer,  a  rare  instrument  for 
delight. 

To  the  Western  ear,  the  Chinese  music  that  throws  back 
to  the  preharmonic  tradition  is  apt  to  be  irritating;  but 
even  the  casual  tourist,  to  whom  Jee  Gam  was  only  a 
"sight"  among  "sights,"  might  feel  the  presence  of  an 
artist  and  know  that  the  tinkling  strangeness  of  his  music 
meant  beauty  and  distinction  to  saffron-colored  men. 
You  could  not  grasp  a  mode  from  which  you  were  divorced 

16  231 


LOST  VALLEY 

by  twenty  centuries,  but  you  could,  if  you  were  by  way  of 
being  a  humanist,  appreciate  Jee  Gam,  the  delicacy  of  his 
touch,  his  reverence  for  his  instrument.  The  young  men 
of  the  quarter  preferred  their  own  riot  of  brass  and  wood, 
which — when  clubroom  windows  were  open — filled  Mott 
Street  with  shattering  clamor.  Heads  thrown  back, 
mouths  wide  with  laughter,  strong  arms  pounding,  they 
sat  before  their  drums  and  great  suspended  cymbals, 
intent  on  drowning  out  any  sounds  not  of  their  own 
making,  and  considered  the  drowning  the  greatest  joke 
in  the  world.  Art  had  nothing  to  do  with  it:  when  they 
wanted  art,  they  slipped  round  the  corner  of  Pell  Street 
and  into  Doyers,  and  paid  a  few  coins  to  Jee  Gam. 

Philosophers  notoriously  need  little  to  live  on,  and  it 
was  perhaps  lucky  for  Jee  Gam  that  he  was  a  philosopher. 
The  Chinese  of  the  neighborhood  would  never  have  let 
him  starve,  for  he  was  old,  he  was  blind,  he  was  learned. 
All  those  facts  constituted  claims.  Still,  he  was  nobody's 
business  in  particular,  and  his  dulcimer  playing  did  not 
bring  him  in  much.  There  is  not  a  great  deal  to  see  in 
New  York's  little  Chinatown,  and  people  who  delve 
into  it  for  curiosity  are  on  the  scent  of  opium  rather  than 
of  music.  When  they  do  not  find  the  opium,  they  are 
apt  to  consider  themselves  "done"  and  go  away.  Most 
of  Jee  Gam's  foreign  customers  were  brought  to  him  by 
young  Quong  Wah,  whose  father  had  been  Jee  Gam's 
friend.  Quong  was  Christian,  and  attended  Columbia 
University.  He  sometimes  brought  people  down  to 
Mott  and  Pell  streets  to  prove  to  them  that  Chinatown 
was  no  sink  of  iniquity;  and  he  never  let  them  go  without 
having  sat  in  Jee  Gam's  cellar  and  listened  to  the  dul 
cimer.  But  there  is  no  doubt  that  most  of  them  pre 
ferred  to  eat  chop  suey  in  the  Port  Arthur  restaurant. 
They  were  respectful  of  Jee  Gam,  but  they  did  not  find 
the  Chinese  music  thrilling.  They  were  more  apt  to 
232 


LOST  VALLEY 

study  the  blind  and  aged  face,  which  gave  the  lie  to  all 
the  tales  of  Oriental  impassivity.  No  European  counte 
nance  could  have  shown  more  clearly  the  modeling  of 
life,  the  fine  etching  of  experience.  Jee  Gam's  features 
were  not  beautiful,  but  one  look  showed  you  that  he  had 
lived,  and  thought,  and  felt,  and  all  to  good  purpose. 
Anyone  would  have  trusted  him,  and  his  smile  was  an 
invitation  to  moral  repose.  The  only  people  in  the 
neighborhood  who  fought  shy  of  him  were  the  priests. 
Jee  Gam  was  a  philosopher,  and  they,  too,  had  their  liv 
ing  to  make.  The  old  musician  never  burned  joss  sticks 
before  their  altars,  or  made  sacrifice,  like  the  gamblers, 
to  the  god  of  Luck  and  Mourning.  Besides,  he  could 
outquote  them.  Their  feeling  was  not  hostility:  a  neu 
trality,  rather,  that  stopped  just  short  of  benevolence. 

April,  that  year,  came  to  the  city  outrageously  dressed. 
She  should  have  been  wearing  half  mourning  for  the 
dead  winter,  but  she  had  stolen  the  clothes  of  June. 
Jee  Gam,  before  he  descended  the  cellar  steps,  sniffed, 
with  upturned  face,  at  the  sky.  The  beautiful  season 
was  upon  him;  he  would  not  even  need  his  charcoal 
stove;  and  he  told  the  small  long-trousered  child  he 
need  not  light  it.  Also  that,  the  day  being  fine,  he,  Jee 
Gam,  would  go  across  the  street  to  the  restaurant  and 
take  food  at  noon.  Someone  would  help  him  up  the 
steps,  and  Doyers  Street  was  so  narrow  that  a  blind  man 
with  good  ears  ran  no  risk  in  crossing  alone.  The  child 
ran  away,  pattering  toward  Pell  Street  in  its  bright 
shoes. 

The  morning  went  by  without  an  audience.  Seldom, 
indeed,  did  people  come  in  the  morning.  Jee  Gam  was 
neither  lonely  nor  unhappy.  He  could  finger  his  dul 
cimer,  polish  his  sticks  on  his  sleeves,  and  meditate. 
Now  and  then  a  friend  popped  his  head  hi  at  the  open 
door  and  gave  him  good  morning  or  told  him  the  news 

233 


LOST  VALLEY 

of  the  world.  Moreover,  a  man  need  never  be  lonely 
who  knows  most  of  the  Tao  Teh  King  by  heart.  Just 
before  noon,  the  fire  engines  clattered  by  at  the  foot  of 
the  twisted  street.  He  heard  them  pass  through  Chatham 
Square  into  Division  Street.  There  are  apt  to  be  fires 
at  the  end  of  the  season,  but  this  must  be  a  real  one — 
with  the  Easter  trade  in  full  swing.  Jee  Gam's  ear 
judged  the  distance  neatly;  he  counted  it  mentally  in 
paces.  The  danger  was  not  near  him.  He  would  eat 
his  midday  meal,  and  talk  of  spring,  with  Lung  Ti  the 
merchant.  In  the  afternoon  the  girl  would  come,  and 
he  would  play  her  music.  Quong  Wah,  too,  was  due. 
Spring  must  be  good,  since  the  constitution  of  man's 
nature  was  such  that  the  returning  sun  and  the  increas 
ing  warmth  made  him  happy;  and  when  a  man  was 
happy  in  his  whole  nature,  it  was  easier  for  him  both  to 
be  passively  content  with  little  and  to  requite  evil  with 
good.  Softly,  very  softly,  he  played  "The  Fifteen 
Bunches  of  Flowers"  (there  is  a  measure  in  all  things, 
and  one  can  afford  to  be  a  little  sad  in  spring),  then  went 
across  to  eat  with  Lung  Ti.  They  fed  slowly  on  a  full- 
flavored  dish  in  which  decay  had  been  used  as  a  precious 
condiment,  drank  a  pale,  scalding  tea,  and  topped  off 
with  sweetmeats.  The  musician  ate  neatly:  his  fingers 
were  used  to  delicate  maneuvering. 

Lung  Ti  would  have  persuaded  him  to  come  and  sit 
in  the  office  at  the  back  of  the  shop,  where  the  worthies 
of  the  quarter  gathered  to  smoke  and  play  chess,  but 
Jee  Gam  excused  himself.  It  was  Saturday  afternoon, 
and  Quong  Wah  had  promised  to  come.  Also  the  young 
girl  would  sweep  out  the  room  and  sprinkle  water  on  the 
floor.  He  was  considering  whether  or  not  to  let  her 
dust  the  dulcimer  with  a  bit  of  silk.  He  must  have  time 
to  think  over  anything  so  momentous.  Lung  Ti  gazed 
at  the  wise  and  kind  face  opposite  him.  Personally  he 
234 


LOST  VALLEY 

believed  no  harm  of  Jee  Gam,  but  there  was  no  doubt 
there  was  talk  in  the  immediate  neighborhood — he 
would  not  put  it,  even  to  himself,  more  directly  than 
that — of  the  joss  house.  These  priests! 

"News  has  never  come  to  my  ears  as  to  how  you  drew 
her  into  your  service,'*  he  said  blandly. 

"In  the  winter,"  explained  Jee  Gam  simply,  "she  was 
passing  by  here  into  another  street.  A  white  man  was 
drunk.  .  .  .  The  street  was  narrow,  and  she  fled  for  safety 
into  my  cellar.  Quong  Wah  was  with  me.  I  played  bal 
lads  to  her  to  bring  her  mind  from  danger  to  delight. 
Then  Quong  took  her  home.  She  lives  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  and  has  a  quest.  She  came  again  to  thank  me — 
and,  I  think,  to  rest  and  to  hear  music.  She  has  no  money 
to  give,  and  she  told  me,  through  Quong,  that  she  would 
esteem  it  an  honor  to  sweep  the  room,  in  requital.  She 
has  no  parents,  and  she  seeks  a  sister  upon  whom,  I  fear, 
the  peach  blossom  has  alighted.  We  speak  but  little, 
since  my  words  are  few,  but,  at  times,  when  the  son  of  my 
friend  has  been  there  to  interpret,  I  have  given  her  con 
solation  out  of  the  Tao  Teh  King.  Especially  I  have 
recommended  to  her  the  saying  of  the  master:  'Do 
nothing,  and  all  things  will  be  done.'  But  the  white 
people  have  not  the  gift  of  repose,  and  the  blessings  of 
passivity  are  unknown  to  their  philosophic  minds.  They 
flitter  about  on  the  chairs  while  I  play  music." 

Lung  Ti  grunted  respectfully.  He  knew  the  white 
people  better  than  a  blind  musician  could  possibly  know 
them.  It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  he  should  spon 
taneously  respect  any  white  girl  who  frequented  Doyers 
Street,  because  unfortunately  most  of  those  who  did  were 
the  sweepings  of  their  type. 

"Has  she  lived  for  a  long  time  near  us?  And  what  is  her 
occupation?  " 

"Since  the  winter  only,  when  her  quest  drew  her  to  the 

235 


LOST  VALLEY 

city.  She  works  in  a  shop  of  sorts  to  the  southeast.  She 
lives,  I  think,  in  one  of  the  streets  to  the  west,  where 
people  from  Europe  are  thick.  Her  quest  is  there.  On 
her  half  holiday,  when  she  is  not  searching  for  the  sister, 
she  sweeps  my  cellar  and  listens  to  the  music.  The  quiet 
of  the  place  is  grateful  to  her.  She  was  not  bred,  I  believe, 
to  cities.  It  is  many,  many  weeks  since  she  first  came.  I 
have  never  seen  her  face,  but  in  any  case,  the  white  folk, 
as  I  remember,  are  all  ugly.  Her  voice  is  not  unpleasant. 
She  speaks  slowly,  as  one  considering." 

"Humph!"  Lung  Ti  waddled  out  of  the  door.  There 
was  no  stuff  of  scandal  there,  he  felt  sure.  He  would  do 
his  best  to  scotch  the  tales.  It  was  bad  for  the  quarter 
to  have  them  afoot,  and  the  American  police  simply  did 
not  understand  a  philosopher.  Perhaps  a  handsome  gift 
to  the  joss  house.  .  .  .  There  must  be  peace  and,  above  all, 
the  semblance  of  virtue,  to  brood  over  Mott  Street. 

Jee  Gam  found  Quong  Wah  waiting  on  the  steps  for 
him.  The  young  student  was  dressed  in  cheap  American 
clothes  and  wore  a  straw  hat  too  large  for  him,  which 
pushed  his  ears  out  under  the  brim.  His  pock-marked 
face  was  not  attractive  in  the  harsh  setting  of  Western 
dress,  and  his  affectation  of  jauntiness — he  was  suffering 
from  acute  Americanitis  at  the  moment — ill  became  him. 
All  that  would  pass  in  time,  for  the  root  of  the  matter  was 
in  him,  and  he  was  in  reality  a  serious,  not  to  say  well- 
intentioned  person.  It  was  his  very  sanity  that  made 
him  frequent  the  old  musician.  In  spite  of  his  temporary 
aspirations,  he  realized  that  you  must  keep  some  link 
with  your  own  tradition  or  cease  to  be  a  coherent,  well- 
cemented  personality.  Jee  Gam  never  pestered  him  or 
laughed  at  him.  He  felt,  pathetically  yet  shrewdly,  that 
his  father's  friend  would  see  him  through  his  tadpole 
stage.  A  tadpole  that  suspects  itself  to  be  a  tadpole  will 
eventually  be  among  the  more  important  frogs. 
236 


LOST  VALLEY 

"It  is  the  day  the  girl  comes  to  sweep  the  room,  is  it 
not?"  he  asked,  after  piloting  the  old  man  to  his  cushioned 
seat. 

Jee  Gam  felt  for  his  sticks,  and  passed  his  hands  over 
his  dulcimer,  for  reassurance  as  to  his  treasure,  before  he 
spoke. 

"I  think  she  will  come." 

"The  dust  is  very  thick — and  the  ivory  of  the  inlay  is 
all  brown." 

"Ah."  Jee  Gam  touched  the  body  of  the  dulcimer. 
"Shall  I  let  her  dust  it,  my  son?" 

"Surely.  I  will  watch,  to  see  that  she  does  it  delicately. 
It  is  not  right  that  the  dulcimer  should  be  made  inglorious 
by  dust." 

"No,"  the  old  man  said  humbly.  "I  cannot  see,  and 
places  escape  my  fingers.  My  hands  know  the  music  but 
not  the  dirt." 

Quong  drew  up  a  chair  and  crossed  his  knees  in  the  best 
undergraduate  fashion,  then  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"Such  a  scholar  as  you,"  he  said  very  respectfully, 
"should  know  many  hidden  processes  of  divination.  Is 
it  likely  that  she  will  find  the  little  sister?" 

Jee  Gam  answered  a  little  fretfully.  "I  do  not  hold 
with  divinations,  as  you  know.  They  are  all  foolish 
ness.  Go  to  the  joss  house  if  you  want  charms.  Or 
perhaps  your  Christian  books  tell  you  how  to  guess 
to-morrow." 

Quong  laughed.  "Not  a  bit  of  it,"  he  said  in  English. 
Then,  to  Jee  Gam:  "Age  and  wisdom  are  the  great  di 
viners — not  charms.  What  do  you  think?" 

"I  think  it  is  difficult,  in  quarters  where  many  races 
gather,  to  find  one  girl  child — especially  a  girl  child  on 
whom  the  peach  blossom  has  alighted,  who  has  been  car 
ried  far  from  her  home  by  evil  men,  and  who  is — as  I 
think  you  have  told  me — innocent.  It  is  very  difficult 

237 


LOST  VALLEY 

to  know  right  action  from  wrong,  save  in  the  matter  of 
requiting  evil  with  good.  Go  home  and  wait,  /  would  say 
to  her,  but  that  all  advice  save  moral  advice  is  to  be 
eschewed." 

"She  seeks  her  among  the  Italians." 

"A  brawling  people,  as  I  have  heard." 

"The  more  likely  to  do  the  sister  an  unkindness.  7 
think  the  sister  is  probably  dead  by  this  time.  The 
statistics  in  my  books  give  a  short  life  to  such  girls, 
especially  when  they  are  young." 

Jee  Gam  could  bear  it  no  longer.  He  took  up  his 
sticks  and  began  to  play  an  interminable  ballad.  The 
young  man  beside  him  threw  away  his  cigarette  and 
closed  his  eyes  to  listen. 

While  the  strange  tinkle  was  slowly  but  surely  filling 
the  room,  penetrating  the  atmosphere  a  little  more 
deeply  with  each  bar  and  stave,  the  sound  of  the  door 
latch  made  Quong  open  his  eyes.  Jee  Gam  went  on 
with  his  music,  and  Madge  Lockerby  entered  the  cellar. 
She  hovered  on  the  tide  of  sound  like  a  bit  of  flotsam 
on  an  alien  wave:  a  piece  of  Northern  oak-spar  on  a 
junk-strewn  sea.  Madge  nodded  at  Quong,  smiled  at 
the  blind,  rapt  face  of  the  old  man,  and  seated  herself. 
She  was  broke  to  the  dulcimer,  accustomed  to  the  little 
cellar;  any  sense  of  the  exotic  was  long  since  gone  for 
her  from  this  niche  of  Doyers  Street.  Since  she  had 
stumbled  into  it  for  refuge  from  insult,  it  had  become  a 
familiar  haven.  Her  eyes,  grown  wise  with  many  con 
tacts,  rested  with  reverence  on  Jee  Gam's  benevolent 
face.  She  had  trusted  many  countenances  of  her  own 
race,  only  to  find  them  masks  for  treachery  or  contempt. 
Now,  she  could  not  be  put  off  by  accidents  of  shape  or 
color.  She  had  grown  shrewd  as  a  kicked  dog;  and  her 
tolerance  would  have  given  Sarah  Martin  fever  and 
ague.  The  only  quiet  she  ever  found,  she  found  here; 
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LOST  VALLEY 

it  was  the  only  Barker's  Hill  she  had  known  since  she 
plunged  into  the  chaos  of  lower  New  York. 

The  ballad  shrilled  itself  to  its  close.  Jee  Gam  nodded 
at  the  place  where  he  had  heard  Madge  take  her  seat. 
Then,  groping,  he  drew  out  a  bit  of  soft  white  Shantung 
silk  and  held  it  in  her  direction. 

"What  is  that  for?"  Madge  asked  Quong.  "Is  the 
mop  gone?  That  is  too  good  to  use." 

"He  is  going  to  let  you  dust  the  dulcimer,"  the  young 
man  replied. 

"But  I  will  sweep  first.     Tell  him." 

Quong  Wah  withdrew  to  the  street  and  smoked  a 
cigarette  while  she  purified  the  room.  Jee  Gam  bent 
his  old  head  before  the  dust,  then  inhaled  the  freshness 
with  relief  as  she  sprinkled  the  floor  from  a  water  jar 
and  lightly  mopped  it  dry. 

The  two  young  people  consulted  a  moment  after  the 
room  was  cleansed.  "He  just  about  worships  that 
dulcimer,"  she  said.  "Are  you  sure  he  means  me  to 
touch  it?" 

"  So  he  said.     It  is  a  great  honor." 

Madge  smiled  faintly.  "I  never  thought  of  its  being 
an  honor  to  dust  anything.  I  supposed  he  was  afraid 
I'd  break  it.  But  I  see  what  you  mean.  It's  kind  of 
sacred  to  him,  and  he  means  to  show  he  thinks  well  of 
me."  She  considered  Jee  Gam's  face  a  moment.  "You 
tell  him  I'll  be  very,  very  careful.  I  know  how  he  feels. 
I've  seen.  Tell  him  I  appreciate  his  letting  me  do  it." 

Very  delicately  she  dusted  the  dulcimer,  rubbing  the 
inlay  and  the  carving,  polishing  the  sticks,  and  barely 
caressing  the  strings  with  the  silk — Jee  Gam's  hand 
hovering,  meanwhile,  to  give  him  news  of  how  she  worked. 
When  it  was  over,  the  two  of  them  drew  long  breaths, 
and  even  Quong  Wah  relaxed,  and  told  Jee  Gam  how 
much  better  the  instrument  looked.  The  old  man 

239 


LOST  VALLEY 

played  a  few  bars,  and  smiled.  It  had  not  been 
harmed. 

Though  Jee  Gam  was  a  philosopher,  he  was  capable  of 
other  than  metaphysical  subtleties.  He  had  not  failed 
to  note  the  aroma  of  implication  that  hung  about  Lung 
Ti's  words  to  him  that  noon.  People  noticed  the  girl's 
coming  and  going:  they  were  curious  about  her  business. 
He  was  not  in  the  least  curious  about  her  business,  him 
self,  but  if  strangers  were  concerning  themselves  with 
her  affairs,  it  was  perhaps  more  seemly  that  he  should  be 
informed.  He  began,  through  Quong,  to  cross-examine 
her.  The  extreme  delicacy  of  his  questionings  became 
inevitably  blunted  in  English,  though  Quong  did  his  best. 

Madge  had  no  unwillingness  to  give  an  account  of 
herself,  though  she  would  perhaps  have  preferred  not  to. 
The  value  of  Jee  Gam's  retreat  to  her  was,  as  she  well 
knew,  its  distance  from  her  everyday  life.  She  came 
there  to  be  soothed,  to  find  peace  in  its  sheer  foreignness. 
Talk  of  Lola  could  only  spoil  the  sanctuary.  At  the 
same  moment,  she  blamed  herself  for  even  wanting  a 
refuge  from  her  duty,  an  air  not  charged  with  her  private 
troubles. 

"I  don't  know  how  much  I've  told  you,  or  you've  told 
him,"  she  said.  "I'm  still  hunting.  I  haven't  got 
people  to  help  me  hunt,  because  back  in  Boston,  I  think 
it  did  harm.  So  I  am  just  hunting  by  myself.  I've 
found  out  the  streets  where  the  Italians  mostly  live,  and 
all  these  months  I've  just  been  going  to  one  house  after 
another.  I'm  very  bold  now.  I  just  walk  in  and  go 
up  and  down  the  stairs  and  pretend  I'm  looking  for  an 
Italian  woman  I  used  to  know.  I've  learned  a  few 
words.  They  know  I  live  in  Mulberry  Street  and  work 
over  beyond  the  Square,  and  they're  not  afraid  of  me. 
The  man,  Giuseppe  they  called  him  in  Boston,  never 
saw  me  but  once,  and  I  don't  think  he'd  remember  me 
240 


LOST  VALLEY 

any  more  than  I'd  remember  him.  Of  course  his  people 
in  Boston  might  have  sent  him  word  that  Lola  was  being 
sought  for,  but  I  don't  think  so.  They  were  very  angry 
with  him  because  he  stole  their  money.  I  don't  think 
they  knew  where  he  had  gone,  any  more  than  I  do.  He 
ran  away  from  them,  too.  Of  course,  I  don't  mind 
telling  Jee  Gam  this,  because  I  know  he  won't  make  me 
any  trouble.  The  people  are  used  to  me.  I  buy  most 
of  my  food  from  Italians.  But  of  course  I  wouldn't 
want  them  to  know  what  I  really  want — not  if  they  were 
likely  to  be  friends  of  Giuseppe's." 

Quong  translated  to  the  older  man.  Jee  Gam  spoke 
slowly  at  the  end.  "Has  she  hope  of  coming  to  the  end 
of  this?  Does  she  expect  to  find  her  sister?" 

"I  don't  know."  She  bowed  her  head  under  the  query. 
"Sometimes  I  think  that  I'll  just  go  on  and  on  and  on, 
forever,  pasting  boxes,  and  living  in  a  dirty  attic,  and 
hunting  the  tenement  houses  over,  and  following  men  with 
monkeys — and  coming  here  to  rest,  in  between.  But  it 
can't  go  on  always.  And  now  spring  is  here,  and  it  makes 
me  feel  all  queer."  She  turned  away  from  Quong  and 
spoke  to  Jee  Gam  as  if  he  could  understand.  "As  if  I 
must  get  to  where  there  are  woods  and  fields — and  moun 
tains.  As  if  my  sister  would  be  where  those  things  are. . . . 
But  I  guess  that's  temptation.  Except  that,  in  the  summer, 
the  man  was  in  the  country,  and  maybe  now  it's  growing 
warm,  he'll  go  to  the  country  again.  So  I'm  hurrying  to  look 
all  I  can  before  summer  comes.  Of  course,  I  know  there 
are  Italians  all  over  New  York,  but  I've  settled  down 
where  they're  thickest — the  poor  kind.  That's  where 
he'd  be.  Only,  I  feel — I  feel" —  she  sought  her  words — 
"as  though,  when  summer  comes,  it  '11  be  over  and  I'll 
have  Lola  back  home,  if  she's  alive.  I'd  go  crazy  to  stay 
in  New  York  till  fall.  It  don't  seem  real — it  don't  seem's 
though  a  real  person  could  be  hidden  away  in  it — not 

241 


LOST  VALLEY 

after  the  leaves  come  out.  And  I've  found  one  Italian 
woman  who'll  help  me,  I  believe.  I  think  she  guesses 
what  I'm  after,  though  I've  been  careful  what  I  said. 
She's  had  a  deal  of  trouble,  and  she  doesn't  gossip  and 
scream  like  tbe  rest.  If  I  had  a  picture  of  Lola,  I'd 
show  it  to  her.  But  I  haven't  got  one."  She  stopped 
awkwardly. 

Quong's  impassive  features  registered  their  equivalent 
of  despair.  What  a  confusion  to  explain  to  Jee  Gam !  He 
cut  it  short. 

"She  still  seeks,  and  thinks  she  is  coming  to  the  end  of 
her  search.  There  is  a  woman  of  the  Italian  people  who 
might  help  her,  if  she  knew  all.  But  the  spring  is  heavy 
upon  her,  and  she  is  discouraged.  It  works  in  her  blood — 
the  spring — and  gives  her  feelings  that  she  does  not  un 
derstand.  She  is  from  the  country,  and  longs  for  the 
country.  Presently  the  spring  will  push  her  into  the  coun 
try  to  seek  her  sister  there — and  she  will  not  know  what 
is  pushing  her.  That  is  better.  The  city  is  grinding  her 
down.  And  I  tell  you  the  sister  is  very  likely  dead. 
Moreover,  it  is  true  that  men  with  monkeys  take  the 
road  in  spring.  So  it  is:  all  sense  and  nonsense  working 
together  in  the  female  heart.  But  I  do  not  think  she  will 
sweep  your  cellar  much  longer." 

"Tell  her  this  for  her  comfort" — Jee  Gam  lifted  a  finger 
and  spoke  authoritatively.  " '  The  way  that  can  be  walked 
upon  is  not  the  perfect  way.'  We  must  renounce  all 
action.  Tell  her." 

Quong  told. 

"Do  you  believe  it,  too?"  asked  Madge.  "I  don't 
know  just  what  it  means:  'The  way  that  can  be  walked 
upon  is  not  the  perfect  way';  but  somehow  it  sounds 
true.  Ask  him  what  it  does  mean." 

The  young  man  turned  patiently  to  Jee  Gam.  "She 
does  not  understand.  And  how  will  you  ever  explain  to 


LOST  VALLEY 

her?     This,  indeed,  is  foolishness.     An  American  girl — 
without,  I  think,  any  real  education." 

"True,  true — she  is  only  a  woman.  But" — Jee  Gam's 
breast  heaved — "she  has  swept  my  cellar  and  listened 
with  reverence  to  my  words.  If  she  remembers,  it  was 
also  said:  'Do  nothing,  and  all  things  will  be  done/  But 
that  is  more  difficult.  Tell  her  again  that  the  way  that 
can  be  walked  upon  is  not  the  perfect  way.  I  think  that 
is  a  more  consolatory  text." 

"  He  says  again,  '  The  way  that  can  be  walked  upon  is 
not  the  perfect  way.'  He  tells  you  to  remember  it.  But 
of  course  he  is — well"  (the  young  Chinaman  smiled),  "a 
heathen  philosopher.  Now  it  was  our  Lord  Christ  who 
said:  'Be  ye  perfect.'" 

Madge  Lockerby  rose  and  stood  looking  down  at  the 
wrinkled  calm  of  Jee  Gam's  face.  "I  don't  like  you  to  call 
him  a  heathen.  I  think  he's  the  best  man  I've  seen  in 
New  York — perhaps  anywhere.  And" — her  bitterness 
welled  up  within  her — "it's  no  use  talking  about  being 
perfect.  You  can't  be  perfect.  It's  true,  what  he  says: 
the  perfect  way  is  something  you  can't  walk  on. " 

Quong  grinned  slightly.  "That  is  not  what  Lao-Tze 
meant,  I  think.  He  meant  you  must  do  nothing,  because 
all  action  is  a  mistake." 

"I  don't  care.  Tell  Jee  Gam  I'll  remember.  I've  re 
membered  lots  of  things  he  said.  And  you  tell  him  I 
may  not  come  always." 

The  old  man  smiled  at  her.  She  lifted  the  lean  yellow 
hand  awkwardly  and  kissed  it.  Then  she  went  out,  and 
Quong  followed  her  into  the  street. 

"You  do  not  know  what  you  are  going  to  do  next?" 

"No,  but  I've  got  an  idea.  I  think  that  Italian  woman 
would  help  me  if  I  had  a  picture  of  my  sister.  I  haven't 
any,  but  I've  been  wondering  .  .  .  there's  a  way  I  might 
try  .  .  .  if  he  only  remembers." 

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LOST  VALLEY 

She  was  speaking  to  herself  rather  than  to  Quong,  but 
he  noted,  with  perplexity,  the  pronoun.  Then  he  shrugged 
himself  out  of  the  story.  Nor  did  he  accompany  her  as 
she  turned  up  Doyers  Street  into  Pell  and  Mott.  It  was 
not  wise  for  him  to  be  seen  too  much  in  the  company  of 
an  American  girl  who  lived  in  the  quarter. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

THE  studio  was  emptying,  for  the  April  twilight  was 
deepening  to  dusk  and  most  people  began  to  think 
prosaically  of  their  dinners.  Only  a  few  intimates  prowled 
about  in  the  farther  corners  and  lighted  themselves  fresh 
cigarettes :  Juanita,  of  course,  and  Desmond  Reilly,  Mrs. 
Talmadge,  and  her  niece  whom  she  was  trying  to  cure  of 
an  infatuation  for  Arthur  Burton  by  letting  her  see  him 
early  and  often. 

Burton  himself,  knowing  only  that  he  much  preferred 
his  old  friend  Mrs.  Talmadge  to  her  niece  Alicia  Fellowes, 
and  not  realizing  that  he  was  being  homoeopathically 
prescribed,  tended  to  be  annoyed  by  the  Talmadge- 
Fellowes  frequentation  of  his  studio.  When  he  would 
have  liked  to  talk  to  Edith  Talmadge,  he  found  himself 
fobbed  off  with  young  Alicia,  who  hung  upon  his  speech 
as  awkwardly  as  the  fish  hangs  upon  the  hook.  He  came 
very  near  being  rude  to  the  girl;  and  Mrs.  Talmadge 
stayed  on  past  all  reasonable  time  in  the  hope  that  he 
would  finally  achieve  that  rudeness.  For  what  she  herself 
wanted — a  cool,  amusing  friendship — he  was  entirely 
eligible.  But  for  Alicia  she  was  all  aunt,  and  saw  in  him 
only  a  bad  match. 

Arthur  Burton  was  not  vain  of  his  person,  and  in  spite 
of  various  encouragements,  did  not  tend  to  think  him 
self  an  easy  object  of  infatuation  for  the  opposite  sex. 
He  was  in  that  regard  unsuspicious.  Being  sensitive, 
however,  he  knew  that  emotion  was  afoot:  that  the  folk 
in  his  studio  were  troubled.  He  could  not  name  or  appor- 

245 


LOST  VALLEY 

tion  these  emotions;  but  he  quivered  uneasily  to  the 
charged  air.  If  only  Desmond  and  Juanita  would  make 
it  out!  But  he  was  afraid  Juanita  was  merely  flirting, 
and  Desmond  bored.  If  Mrs.  Talmadge  would  only  ship 
her  niece  back  home!  But  the  girl  was  somehow  there, 
ominously  the  only  thing  before  him,  whichever  way  his 
eyes  turned. 

In  his  discomfort  he  took  counsel  of  evil.  "You  haven't 
had  a  cigarette  yet,  Miss  Fellowes." 

"Oh,  but  I  don't  smoke— I  never  have."  The  tall 
young  creature  looked  anxiously  into  his  very  eyes.  It 
was  intolerable. 

"Isn't  it  time  you  began?  Do — to  please  me.  Mayn't 
she,  Mrs.  Talmadge?" 

"Of  course  she  may." 

"Here" — he  extracted  a  cigarette  and  matches  hastily 
from  his  pockets.  "You  take  it.  I'll  light  it  for  you." 
Alicia  did  it  as  badly  as  possible,  but  after  three  matches 
had  been  wasted,  got  it  going. 

"Now  what  do  I  do?  "    She  looked  trustingly  at  Arthur. 

"Do?  You  do  what  Juanita  does.  Come  over  here, 
Juanita,  and  show  Miss  Fellowes  how  to  inhale." 

Juanita  moved  catlike  across  the  floor.  Standing  in 
front  of  Miss  Fellowes,  she  inhaled  a  few  whiffs,  then 
knocked  the  ash  off  with  her  little  finger.  "  That's  how. 
Nothing  easier."  She  walked  back  to  Desmond  Reilly. 
Mrs.  Talmadge  watched  her  niece  very  keenly.  Arthur 
had  turned  his  back  with  suspicious  swiftness.  Just 
what  he  had  wanted  to  happen  was  going  to.  He  didn't 
care  if  Mrs.  Talmadge  was  angry  with  him  for  making 
her  niece  sick.  Perhaps  she  would  keep  her  away,  after 
this.  It  was  only  manners  to  busy  himself  elsewhere  while 
Mrs.  Talmadge  piloted  the  shaken  and  dizzy  child  to  a 
deep  chair  where  she  could  close  her  eyes.  But  it  served 
Mrs.  Talmadge  right.  How  could  he  know  that  Mrs. 
246 


LOST  VALLEY 

Talmadge  was  as  happy  as  he?  She  remembered  that  she 
had  never  forgiven  the  man  who  had  pressed  her  first 
cigarette  upon  her. 

Arthur  sauntered  over  to  the  pair  who  sat  on  the  bench 
under  the  dusk-filled  window. 

"I'm  afraid  I  oughtn't  to  have  urged  her  to  smoke. 
I'm  afraid  it  has  made  her  rather  ill." 

Juanita  looked  at  him  and  said  nothing.  She  was  very 
sure  he  had  not  made  Alicia  Fellowes  ridiculous  out  of 
compliment  to  her.  Desmond  Reilly  burst  out  at  him. 
"You're  a  brute,  Arthur.  You  might  have  known  a  girl 
oughtn't  to  inhale,  first  off."  He  was  really  angry — angry 
because  Arthur  had  told  him  off  to  flirt  with  Juanita, 
which  did  not  amuse  him.  Everyone,  by  this  time,  was 
angry  with  Arthur,  for  unavowed  reasons,  except  Mrs. 
Talmadge — and  she  was  momentarily  annoyed  with  him 
for  existing  at  all,  for  necessitating  drastic  measures. 
She  fanned  her  niece  slowly,  giving  her  time  to  recover 
with  dignity. 

Desmond  Reilly,  being  angry,  proceeded  to  make  him 
self,  if  possible,  more  so.  "It  was  disgusting  of  you — a 
perfectly  nice  girl  like  that."  He  had  to  cling  to  his 
pretext. 

This  was  too  much.  "If  you  people  think  me  such  a 
brute,  why  don't  you  go  away?" 

The  question  was  perhaps  reasonable  enough,  but  the 
hidden  fact  was  that  no  one  wanted  to  go  until  he  had 
a  chance  to  vent  his  exacerbated  emotions.  Not  a  per* 
son  in  the  studio  but  wanted  to  voice  in  some  way  the 
annoyance  he  might  not  give  its  true  name  to.  Juanita 
had  overplayed  her  game  the  most  glaringly:  she  alone 
was  willing  to  temporize,  for  the  sake  of  saving  her  own 
face. 

"I'm  going  at  once.  I've  been  doing  everything  to 
provoke  Mr.  Reilly  to  slay  me,  and  he  just  won't.  He 

17  247 


LOST  VALLEY 

only  fingers  his  shillalah.  But  before  I  go,  Arthur, 
won't  you  show  us  your  primitive?  Mimi  raves  about  it." 

Well,  of  course  he  oughtn't  to  have  shown  anything  to 
Mimi  Ralston  that  he  wouldn't  show  to  Juanita.  But 
he  had  shown  it  to  Mimi  because  she  knew  something 
about  painting.  Then,  of  course,  she  had  given  it  to 
Juanita  to  make  a  personal  matter  of.  ...  From  across 
the  room  he  heard  a  faint  voice  saying:  "I'm  quite  all 
right  now.  So  silly  of  me.  What  will  Mr.  Burton  think 
of  me?"  And  a  very  tart  voice  replying:  "You  don't 
suppose  he  was  surprised,  do  you?"  Oh,  these  women! 
And  Reilly,  instead  of  standing  by  him  like  a  man,  had 
gone  off  at  half  cock,  too. 

"Of  course  I'll  show  it  to  you.  But  if  you  don't  like 
it,  I'll  kill  you." 

Arthur  moved  across  to  a  closet  and  took  out  a  small 
canvas,  which  he  placed  under  a  lamp.  From  her  little 
niche  of  light,  Lockerbys*  Lola  smiled  her  heartbreak  at 
them.  He  had  got  it  all  in,  from  his  uncanny  memory 
and  his  surreptitious  sketches.  Indeed,  he  had,  as  it 
were,  dated  it  ahead:  the  suggestion  of  decay  about 
which  he  had  spoken  haltingly  to  Madge,  was  frankly 
there;  it  was  Lola  as  he  had  seen  she  was  about  to  become. 
Yet  he  had  stuck  honestly  to  the  beauty  that  existed;  and 
the  effect  was  curious — as  if  that  beauty  were  dismayed 
before  its  own  spoiling,  and  clung  a  little  sadly  to  itself. 

Juanita  herself  could  not  but  be  struck  with  the  por 
trait.  Something  very  honest,  far  down  within  her, 
spoke.  "Oh,  but  it's  ripping — and  cruel,  too.  I  mean, 
she's  a  saint,  and  she  isn't  all  there,  and  she  knows  it. 
Did  the  girl  know  it?" 

"Of  course  she  didn't." 

"It  is  partly  trick- work,  I  suppose.  YouVe  given  her 
the  primitive  background  and  the  archaic  pose — and  all 
the  while  she's  just  an  idiot.  You  ought  to  be  excom- 
£48 


LOST  VALLEY 

municated."  Juanita- Joanna  sniffed  a  little,  for  she  had 
embedded  in  that  fundamental  hardness  of  hers  a  slender 
vein  of  sentimentality. 

"Thanks.  I  take  that  for  a  real  compliment — from 
you." 

Reilly  stood  looking  curiously.  He  committed  him 
self  neither  one  way  nor  the  other. 

"We  must  go  now,  Mr.  Burton.  May  we  come  again 
next  Thursday?"  Mrs.  Talmadge  had  crossed  to  them. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Edith,  I  think  we  promised  the  Taylors—" 

"Never  mind  the  Taylors.  We  can  come  if  Mr.  Burton 
will  have  us."  Mrs.  Talmadge  smiled  a  little  more 
sweetly.  If  she  had  not  been  a  very  old  friend,  Arthur 
Burton  would  have  taken  her  for  a  devil. 

"Sorry,  Mrs.  Talmadge.  I'm  going  to  Chicago  early 
next  week  to  stay  with  the  Lawrences.  I've  just  written 
to  Mrs.  Lawrence,  in  fact.  WTien  I  come  back — do  come 
again." 

Desmond  Reilly,  under  the  empire  of  some  new  emotion 
of  his  own,  had  walked  away  from  the  lighted  picture 
and  the  group  that  surrounded  it. 

"There's  a  knock,"  he  threw  back  over  his  shoulder 
at  Arthur.  "Shall  I  answer?" 

"Please."  The  ladies,  at  this  signal,  fluttered  about 
for  departure — even  Juanita,  who  squashed  her  unpinned 
hat  more  firmly  on  her  head,  and  gathered  up  a  coat. 
Aunt  and  niece  drew  gloves  on. 

Reilly  returned  to  them,  leaving  a  shadowy  figure 
near  the  door.  "A  young  lady  wants  to  see  you,  Burton." 

"A  young  lady?"  Arthur  knitted  his  brows  and  came 
forward. 

Shabby,  straight,  and  handsome,  Madge  Lockerby 
faced  him,  ignoring  the  others.  They  heard  him — 
ignoring  them  also — murmur,  from  stupefied  lips,  "So 
it  was  you!" 


LOST  VALLEY 

Mrs.  Talmadge  swept  her  niece  out  into  the  hall;  she 
even,  in  her  haste,  lent  her  right  arm  to  the  process. 
Alicia  now  had  had  enough :  the  tone  of  Arthur  Burton's 
overheard  voice  was  just  the  impression  she  would  have 
chosen  for  the  last.  Let  the  shaken  girl  go  home  and 
sleep  on  that. 

Juanita  dropped  her  little  bag  quietly  into  a  chair 
and  slid  out  past  Mrs.  Talmadge  and  Alicia.  Desmond 
Reilly  followed  her.  "So  long,  Arthur!"  he  called  back 
cheerfully. 

Reilly  was  the  only  one  of  them  who  made  a  good  exit; 
yet  if  Juanita  had  departed  without  her  bag,  he  had  no 
less  deliberately  left  his  stick  in  a  corner.  The  naked 
wonder,  the  nameless  emotion,  of  Arthur  Burton's  tone 
had  not  been  lost  on  those  two.  Arthur  had  obviously 
forgotten  their  very  presence  the  instant  he  faced  the 
newcomer;  and  the  words  reeked  of  an  immediate  past. 

Madge  Lockerby,  greeted  in  this  strange  way  by 
Burton,  felt  at  first  only  exceeding  relief  at  being  recog 
nized  at  all.  She  had  been  rehearsing  ways  to  recall 
Lost  Valley  to  him.  That  was  not  necessary:  recogni 
tion  thrilled  through  his  voice.  But  something  else, 
she  instantly  realized,  thrilled  there  too:  something 
hostile.  The  mere  fact,  moreover,  of  being  once  more, 
in  spite  of  fate,  face  to  face  with  Arthur  Burton,  affected 
her  incalculably.  Only  those  who  have  lived  a  long 
time  with  a  dream  can  know  the  terror  of  the  instant 
when  the  dream  returns  to  flesh.  Her  head  swam;  her 
knees  trembled.  Her  duty,  her  quest,  her  bitter  anxiety 
had  been  like  a  dam  to  hold  back  the  past.  Now  it  had 
broken,  and  she  was  afloat  again  on  those  waters.  Only, 
they  had  burst  their  quiet  banks  and  rushed  headlong 
in  an  unmanageable  torrent;  and  the  old  stable  land 
marks  tossed  like  shaken  debris  upon  the  flood.  The 
ordered  sequence  of  her  attitude  to  Arthur  was  broken 
250 


LOST  VALLEY 

up.     She  felt  at  once,  confusedly,  all  the  things  she  had 
ever  felt  about  him. 

Words  spell  out  thoughts  too  slowly.  It  took  only  a 
few  seconds,  as  time  is  counted,  for  Madge  to  be  over 
whelmed.  Any  help  that  Burton  could  unconsciously 
have  given  her  was  refused  by  the  strange  hostile  wonder 
of  his  speech.  She  sank  down  in  a  chair,  not  to  have 
to  waste  strength  in  keeping  her  knees  stiff.  Her  mind 
was  a  welter:  old  days  beside  him  in  the  Valley;  Granny; 
Uncle  Andrew;  Bert  Breen's  insults;  snow-bound  nights 
when  she  rehearsed  every  spoken  word  of  his  she  could 
remember;  the  long  peaceful  hours  by  the  brook  in  spring, 
when  she  had  come  so  near  patching  her  memories  into 
peace.  She  dared  not  look  at  him,  yet  her  eyes  stole 
away  from  her  control  and  fed  hungrily  on  those  contours. 

She  knew  that  she  must  speak;  and  for  cue  she  could 
only  go  to  his  own  words,  with  which,  less  than  a  moment 
ago,  he  had  so  perplexingly  greeted  her. 

"It  was  I?  What  do  you  mean?  I  don't  understand. 
You  haven't  seen  me  before.  Or — or  don't  you  remem 
ber  me,  really?  I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't." 

"  I  don't  forget  faces,  as  you  may  happen  to  remember. 
The  shapes  and  colors  of  things  are  my  business.  All 
the  same,  when  I  thought  I  saw  you,  ten  days  ago,  I 
didn't  believe  it.  I  thought  Nature  had  done  what  she 
never  does — repeated  a  face.  I  might  have  known  that 
the  evidence  of  the  senses  is  the  best  thing  we  have  to  go 
on,  in  this  world." 

"You  did  see  me?  Where?  Oh,  Mr.  Burton,  why 
didn't  you  speak  to  me?  I'd  have  come  here  long  ago 
if  I  hadn't  been  afraid  to  trouble  you.  There's  only 
one  thing  that  could  make  me  trouble  you.  You'd  have 
saved  me  a  lot  of  worry,  if  you'd  spoken.  I  needn't  have 
wasted  all  this  time,  making  up  my  mind.  It  wasn't 
very  friendly  of  you." 

251 


LOST  VALLEY 

"There  were  very  good  reasons  why  I  didn't  speak." 

The  longer  he  stood  before  her,  the  easier  it  was  for 
Madge  to  get  out  her  words.  He  was  becoming  estab 
lished  in  the  flesh  again;  the  horrid  moment  when  he 
seemed  a  monster,  half  vision,  half  man,  was  over.  She 
was  soothed  by  remembered  tricks  of  feature,  the  steady 
reality  of  his  voice,  even  though  its  irony  was  new  to  her. 
Madge  did  not  realize  how  much  she  herself  had  changed; 
and  how  Arthur  Burton  was  giving  himself  his  own 
account  of  that.  Her  poise,  her  newer  intonations,  the 
relentless  modeling  of  her  face  under  the  hands  of  life, 
were  all  telling  against  her.  Arthur  was  not  easily 
shocked,  even  by  a  girl  who  had  gone  to  the  devil.  But 
most  girls  of  the  sort  had  not  taken  their  leap  from  Lost 
Valley;  and  most  girls  of  the  sort,  he  had  never  known 
when  they  were  pathetic,  austere,  and  innocent.  He 
was  angry  at  her  coming  back  to  him  in  this  guise. 

"I  don't  know  what  they  could  have  been,"  she 
answered  quietly.  "If  you  are  afraid  of  my  pushing 
in  among  your  friends,  Mr.  Burton" — Madge  of  Lost 
Valley  had  never  had  a  smile  like  that — "well,  you 
needn't  be,  that's  all.  I'm  sorry  you  weren't  alone 
to-day  when  I  came.  But  I  had  to  come  when  I  could. 
I  work,  of  course — and  I  live  'way  down  in  Mulberry 
Street." 

"It  was  not  my  friends  that  interfered,"  Arthur  rejoined 
smoothly.  "Yours,  rather." 

"Mine?  But  I  haven't  any.  I  get  on  all  right  with 
the  Italians  who  live  round  me — some  of  them.  But  I 
wouldn't  call  them  friends.  Was  it  in  Mulberry  Street 
you  saw  me?  " 

"It  was  not  in  Mulberry  Street.  And  your  friends 
were  not  Italians." 

He  turned  away  and  lighted  a  cigarette;  then  paced 
the  studio.  The  familiar  gesture  of  his  brought  the  tears 
252 


LOST  VALLEY 

to  Madge's  eyes.  He  was  so  like  himself,  and  yet  so 
different.  She  had  ceased  to  be  interested  in  where  he 
had  seen  her;  there  were  no  important  moments  in  her 
blank  days. 

"I'm  sure  I  haven't  any  friends  that  need  to  frighten 
you,  Mr.  Burton.  Indeed,  I  didn't  know  I  had  any  at  all 
in  New  York — except  perhaps  one,  and  he'd  never  hurt 
you." 

Arthur,  still  pacing,  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  studio. 
Madge  permitted  herself  to  be  a  little  angry.  True,  she 
had  come  to  ask  a  favor,  but  how  could  he  know  that? 
What  could  he  have  against  her  except  that  he  was  afraid 
of  her  trying  to  push  her  way  into  his  life?  She  got  up 
and  crossed  the  room  to  where  he  moved  uneasily. 

"I  came" — he  turned  and  faced  her  again — "I  came 
because  in  Lost  Valley  you  were  kind,  and  spoke  kindly. 
I've  had  dreadful  trouble  since  last  summer.  I've  been  hi 
New  York  since  January.  That  ought  to  show  you  I'm 
not  trying  to  mix  you  up  in  my  affairs.  I  see  you  don't 
like  my  coming  here.  Well!  I  never  would  have  come  if 
I'd  known  anybody  else  who  could  do  what  I  meant  to 
ask  you  to  do.  And  it  wasn't  much  to  ask,  either.  But 
I  can  see  you  resent  my  coming,  so  I'll  go."  She  would 
not  reproach  him:  she  was  too  deeply  hurt  for  that.  She 
turned  away.  She  had  been  steeled  against  the  chance 
of  his  not  remembering;  but  to  remember,  yet  to  be  so 
unkind — that,  she  had  not  looked  for.  He  had  not  even 
cared  to  ask  her  what  brought  her  to  this  terrible  city, 
to  ask  her  what  it  was  he  could  do  for  her,  that  she  had 
come  so  tremblingly  to  ask.  Yet  she  had  counted  on  his 
being  all  sympathy,  in  his  old  fashion,  and  helping  her  to 
get  her  story  out.  Now — oh,  now,  he  had  hurt  her  im 
placable  Lockerby  pride.  Ask  favors  of  him?  No!  She 
ached  for  the  kindly  vision  of  him  she  had  kept  so  long, 
now  lost  forever.  This  was  the  man  whose  picture  of 

253 


LOST  VALLEY 

Roundtop  lay  locked  in  a  trunk  in  Lost  Valley — lest  she 
should  dream  over  it  too  ardently. 

She  turned  to  go;  and  the  picture  beneath  the  lamp — 
the  clearest  spot  of  light  in  the  room — drew  her  eyes. 
She  leaped  to  it  with  a  little  cry.  "Lola!"  Madge 
Lockerby  did  not  pause  to  criticize  or  wonder;  the  por 
trait  was  no  portrait  to  her — simply  a  fact  that  stunned. 
A  long-forgotten  night  rose  up  and  towered  in  her  memory. 
She  saw  Arthur  Burton  carrying  Lola  down  the  stairs 
through  the  smoke  of  the  living  room  .  .  .  herself  ineffectu 
ally  struggling.  .  .  .  She  felt  the  old  jealousy  rising  in  her 
throat,  like  a  bitter  taste.  Quivers  of  that  old  hysteria 
ran  through  her;  like  one  in  a  hypnotist's  power,  she  re 
peated,  relived,  that  mad  suspicion.  At  the  time  it  had 
been  trampled  down  into  the  hell  whence  it  came;  now 
it  struggled  up  again.  The  only  time  (until  now)  that 
Arthur  Burton  had  ever  been  unkind  to  her  was  that 
night  when  he  had  reproached  her  over  Lola's  limp  form 
— for  indifference  to  Lola.  After  Madge's  romantic 
suffering,  after  her  sordid  odyssey  of  the  last  months,  she 
had  come  to  the  man  she  loved,  pure  in  heart,  humble, 
inviting  new  pain  for  her  duty's  sake — for  Madge  Lock 
erby  knew  too  well  what  power  the  fresh  sight  of  him 
might  have — and  what  had  happened?  He  had  greeted 
her  unkindly:  he  had  not  wanted  to  see  her;  and  here, 
flaunted  in  her  eyes,  was  the  terrible  concrete  hint  that  he 
had  seen  her  sister — had  rapt  her  away  perhaps — was 
keeping  her  somewhere  hidden  from  the  eyes  that  burned 
with  the  weariness  of  search.  Unreasonable  is  a  light 
word  to  express  the  twists  and  turns  of  Madge  Lockerby's 
uncontrolled  imagination.  But  the  wrong  pattern  shaped 
itself  with  an  inevitableness  of  its  own.  For  the  moment, 
she  was  wholly  prey  to  those  insignificant  facts  that  de 
tached  themselves  diabolically  from  their  saner  context. 
The  picture  flashed  upon  her  like  a  sign  vouchsafed.  She 
254 


LOST  VALLEY 

bad  hunted  through  the  wilderness  and  the  slums  in  vain; 
and  now  she  found  Lola  here  in  Arthur  Burton's  studio. 
If  she  had  found  her  there  in  person,  it  would  not  just  then 
have  hit  her  harder.  He  had  never  painted  Lola  in  Lost 
Valley — but  he  had  praised  her  beauty,  he  had  held  her 
in  his  arms  that  bitter  night,  and  had  spurned  Madge 
from  him  in  defending  his  gesture.  Now,  here,  before  her 
eyes,  Lola  herself  rose:  so  real  that  Lola,  she  felt,  could 
not  be  far  away  from  the  canvas. 

Burton,  pulled  up  short,  did  not  better  matters  by  his 
slow  flush.  He  wished  Juanita  in  Hades.  So  the  evil 
moment  was  allowed  to  prolong  itself. 

"You  have  seen  her!  And  I  have  been  bearing  things 
I  never  thought  a  girl  could  bear,  to  find  her.  Where  is 
she?  Give  her  to  me.  I  thought  it  was  a  miserable 
Italian  who  had  her — and  you  have  had  her,  Heaven  knows 
how  long!  You  are  wickeder  than  Giuseppe — he  wanted 
money,  they  say.  But  you  only  wanted  to  show  your 
friends  what  you  could  do."  She  bent  forward.  "She 
didn't  look  like  that  when  she  left  me.  It's  the  way  she 
looks  now,  I  suppose."  The  bitterness  of  her  tone  startled 
even  the  shaken  Arthur.  "Well,  now  you've  done  with 
her,  give  her  back  to  me!  I  came  to  ask  you  if  you  could 
remember  her  well  enough  to  draw  her  for  me — so  I  could 
get  people  to  help  me  hunt.  And  I  find — "  Words  failed 
her  there,  but  she  raised  her  right  hand  to  her  head  in  a 
wide  curving  gesture.  She  seemed  to  be  beating  off  the 
leagued  powers  of  evil,  while  secretly  summoning  other 
powers  to  her  side.  Her  uplifted  hand,  palm  out,  both 
withstood  and  implored.  Arthur  Burton,  struck  speech 
less,  watched  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  sibyl.  God!  how 
the  girl  had  changed.  What  must  not  lie  behind  the 
change?  But  she  was  shatteringly  handsome,  and  her 
voice  carried  in  it  the  echoes  of  foreign  harmonies. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say" — he  gathered  himself 

255 


LOST  VALLEY 

together  to  cry  out  his  perplexity — "I  don't  know  what 
you  mean."  Nor  did  he.  The  girl  was  transformed  like 
a  witch:  she  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  Lockerby  girl  in 
Lost  Valley.  She  had  roamed  our  cities  and  fallen  under 
strange  spells.  And  she  rose  up  out  of  the  sink  in  which 
he,  with  his  own  eyes,  had  seen  her — not  believing,  then, 
but  now,  more  than  ever,  knowing  it  was  true — to  accuse 
him  of  monstrosities.  This  was  the  girl  he  had  been  sorry 
for,  in  her  far-off  bucolic  world.  Well,  she  had  passed 
beyond  being  sorry  for.  She  seemed  crazed  at  the  mo 
ment;  but  it  was  not  insanity  that  had  made  her  what 
she  was.  Knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  perhaps.  .  .  . 
Remember  that  Arthur  was  not  yet  aware  (for  her  wild 
words  conveyed  no  meaning  to  him)  of  the  reason  or  the 
manner  of  her  progress  from  Lost  Valley  to  Mott  Street, 
from  Granny  and  Uncle  Andrew  to  the  Chinese  of  New 
York,  and  slant-eyed  smiles,  behind  her  back,  where 
Doyers  Street  curves  into  Pell.  Both  Jee  Gam  and 
Quong  had  been  with  her,  when  her  evil  luck  had  brought 
Arthur  Burton,  unseen,  across  her  track — and  of  course 
Jee  Gam  bore  no  phylactery  to  show  that  he  was  a  phi 
losopher  or  Quong  to  show  that  he  was  a  Christian. 

They  faced  each  other,  the  woman  and  the  man,  both 
young,  both  shaken  by  fiery  misconceptions. 

"Where  is  my  sister,  Mr.  Burton?" 

"Your  sister?  Lola — wasn't  that  her  name?"  He 
made  a  vague  gesture  toward  the  picture.  "I  don't  know 
why  you  come  here  and  ask  me  such  an  extraordinary 
thing  as  that,  Miss  Lockerby.  I  haven't  the  faintest 
notion  where  she  is." 

"When  did  you  paint  that  picture?" 

"This?  Let  me  see.  ...  I  positively  can't  remember 
which  month  it  was.  I  should  say  about  last  November." 

"But  in  November  she  was  in  Boston."    Madge  knitted 
her  brows. 
256 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Was  she,  indeed?"  Burton  spoke  with  perfunctory 
courtesy — afternoon-tea  courtesy.  But  this  was  not  an 
afternoon  tea,  and  politeness  out  of  place  may  sound  like 
insult. 

"When  have  you  seen  her?  What  was  the  last  time?" 
Madge  expected  him  to  lie,  yet  hoped  for  a  clew.  To  this 
had  she  come. 

"The  last  time  I  saw  her?  The  last  time  I  saw  her  was 
in  Lost  Valley,  as  you  very  well  know.  I  can't  give  you 
the  date.  It  was  the  morning  I  left  your  uncle's  house 
after  painting  Lost  Valley  for  Mr.  Lawrence." 

"You  swear  to  me,  Mr.  Burton,  that  you  haven't  seen 
Lola  since  a  year  ago  last  fall?" 

Burton's  annoyance  mounted.  The  girl  was  on  the 
wrong  tack  somehow,  but  it  was  not  up  to  him  to  steer  her. 

"Seen  her?"  All  his  exasperation  showed  in  his  tone. 
"  WTiere  should  I  see  her?  Don't  you  think  you  had  better 
stop  this  insulting  nonsense?" 

Madge  bit  her  lip.  But  she  would  not  let  emotion  have 
its  way  until  she  had  worried  him  with  one  more  plain 
question. 

"How  did  you  paint  that,  if  you  haven't  seen  her?" 

"That?  I  painted  it  from  memory  and  from  sketches, 
of  course.  I  think  I  told  you  before  that  I  remember 
faces.  If  I  chose,  I  could  paint  your  uncle — or  your 
grandmother.  How  are  they,  by  the  way?  Are  they 
also  in  New  York?" 

Oh,  it  was  hard  that,  hating  him  so  utterly  for  his 
cruelty,  she  must  needs  still  love  his  face,  his  carriage,  his 
very  voice.  .  .  .  But  Madge  had  learned  much:  had 
learned  to  take  punishment  and  stagger  up  before  time 
was  called. 

"I  think" — her  voice  was  strained — "that  you  had 
better  let  me  tell  you  a  few  things  before  I  go.  Maybe 
you  don't  need  to  be  told  some  of  them;  but  I'll  feel  better 

257 


LOST  VALLEY 

if  I  say  them  in  your  hearing.  You've  got  to  understand 
why  I  came  here.  I'd  die  of  shame  if  you  thought  I  came 
because  I  wanted  to." 

As  simply  as  she  could,  she  told  her  story:  how  Lola 
had  been  lured  away  by  the  monkey;  how  she,  Madge, 
had  followed  the  deceptive  trail  from  little  town  to  little 
town;  how  she  had  gone  to  Boston  and,  searching  that 
town,  had  found  Lola's  haven  just  too  late. 

"I  came  to  New  York  in  January.  I've  had  to  work, 
of  course.  And  I've  been  living  among  the  Italians  be 
cause  I  thought  I  had  a  better  chance  of  finding  her. 
Now  summer  is  coming,  and  I'm  afraid  he'll  take  her  to 
the  country  again.  Old  Maddalena  says  she'll  help  me — 
I  finally  told  her  about  it.  But  I've  no  picture  of  Lola. 
So  I  came  to  you  because  I  thought  perhaps  you  had 
sketched  her,  back  there — I  remembered  you  wanted  to 
— or  maybe  would  sketch  her  for  me,  so  I  could  show  it  to 
Maddalena.  She'd  know  Lola  quicker  then.  That's 
what  I  came  for — for  nothing  else,  you  can  be  sure,  Mr. 
Burton."  So  she  ended. 

"You  thought  I  was  able  to  make  a  picture  of  your 
sister  from  memory — and  sketches.  And  when  you  found 
I  had  done  just  that,  you  proceeded  to  accuse  me  of  having 
abducted  her.  It  really  doesn't  hold  water,  Miss  Locker- 
by."  Arthur's  tone  was  very  cold. 

"Don't  you  see?  I  came — and  there  it  was,  before 
my  eyes.  It  stunned  me.  It  was  one  thing  if  I  came 
and  asked  you  to  do  it — I  wasn't  sure  you  could,  even  so 
— but  when  I  find  it  here,  what  am  I  to  think?  Why 
would  you  be  painting  Lola  if  you  hadn't  seen  Lola?" 

"I'd  be  painting  Lola  for  the  reasons  I  gave  you  in 
Lost  Valley.  You  didn't  seem  to  care  for  her  portrait, 
then,  if  I  remember.  But  my  sketchbook  was  my  own. 
I  have,  since,  made  use  of  it.  If  you  searched  the  prem 
ises,  you  would  find  a  few  hundred  other  things  that  I 
258 


LOST  VALLEY 

have  painted  since  I  saw  you — or  your  sister.  In  fact" 
— he  knitted  his  brow  as  a  sudden  memory  came  to  him 
— "wait  a  moment.  I  can  show  you  something  else  I've 
done  within  six  months." 

Burton  walked  to  a  far  corner  of  the  studio,  rummaged 
among  canvases  and  portfolios,  and  came  back  with  a 
sheet  of  paper.  "Perhaps  you  would  suggest  that  I 
have  visited  Lost  Valley  again?" 

Madge  bent  her  head  to  look.  It  was  the  husking 
scene  at  Breens':  Granny  the  center  of  much  Hogarthian 
detail. 

Madge's  eyes  filled  as  she  looked  at  it.  She  was  more 
callous  than  of  old  to  minor  insults,  but  memory  stung 
in  a  hundred  ways. 

"Poor  Granny!"  she  said  quietly,  forgetting  for  a 
moment  her  newer  grievances.  "Uncle  Andrew  hasn't 
forgiven  me  for  going  off  to  hunt  for  Lola.  Perhaps  he 
never  will.  I  don't  know.  Strange  as  it  may  seem  to 
you,  Mr.  Burton,  uncle  loves  Granny  better  than  any 
thing  else  in  the  world — as  I  love  Lola.  Probably  you 
think  we  have  queer  taste.  Love  doesn't  pick  and 
choose,  I  guess.  And  you  always  come  back  to  your 
own!"  She  brooded  a  little,  still,  over  the  husking  scene. 
Then  she  laughed  dryly.  "I  guess  even  Bert  Breen 
would  look  good  to  me  now — after  the  things  I've  seen. 
I'd  know  what  to  make  of  Bert,  anyhow."  Her  irony 
was  unforced,  and  her  host  was  not  slow  to  be  aware  of  it. 

"Yes,  he's  white,  at  least,"  Arthur  said  coldly. 

"So  are  Italians — and  they're  the  wickedest  people 
in  the  world,  as  I've  seen  it." 

"You  prefer  the  Chinese,  apparently." 

Madge  could  not  know — Arthur  himself  could  not 
wholly  know — that  something  other  than  hostility  to 
herself  underlay  his  cruelty,  very  deep.  Arthur  had 
never  been  within  visible  distance  of  loving  Madge 

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LOST  VALLEY 

Lockerby,  but  until  this  moment  his  memory  of  her  had 
been  idyllic.  Her  beauty,  her  dignity,  her  serviceableness, 
the  pathos  of  her  life,  had  been  mingled  in  recollection 
with  the  beauty  of  the  Valley  and  what  he  had  wrung 
from  it:  a  rich  autumn  light  hung  over  the  episode. 
He  would  doubtless  have  forgotten  her  wholly  if  she  had 
not  been  woven  into  a  fine  experience;  and,  had  she 
herself  been  ill  to  look  at,  he  would  probably  have  excised 
her  figure  from  the  reminiscent  vision.  As  it  was,  she 
had  belonged  to,  and  in,  Lost  Valley;  when  he  remem 
bered,  he  remembered  Madge  Lockerby  along  with 
Lost  Brook,  Roundtop,  and  Barker's  Hill. 

"The  Chinese?  Yes,  I  think  I  do.  Some  of  them 
have  been  very  kind  to  me."  She  did  not  know  why 
he  recurred  to  this  note;  her  innocence  took  on  an  edge 
of  defiance.  Madge  had  learned  many  facts;  but  there 
were  implications  she  was  still  as  ignorant  of  as  in  Lost 
Valley  days. 

"No,"  she  mused  again.  "I  guess  the  only  friend 
I've  got  in  all  New  York  is  a  Chinaman."  Maddalena, 
you  see,  had  not  yet  proved  herself;  and  Quong  she 
never  thought  of. 

Arthur  grimaced.  He  had  to  admit  to  himself  that 
her  manner  gave  nothing  away;  but  then  she  had  come 
on,  and  changed  so  in  this  interval — who  could  tell? 
Heads  had  been  turned  in  Pell  Street  to  look  after  her; 
he  had  caught  a  leer  or  two.  .  .  .  And  she  confessed  to 
living  down  there.  .  .  .  Well,  decent  American  girls 
didn't  hang  round  with  Chinese.  Madge  Lockerby 
was  not  a  town  rat;  but  that  made  her  frequentation 
of  them  even  more  unnatural.  As  for  this  cock-and-bull 
story  about  her  sister,  how  did  he  know  it  was  true?  To 
do  Burton  justice,  if  Madge  had  simply  arrived  with  her 
story,  he  would  have  believed  it.  But  her  ill  luck  was 
twofold:  he  had  seen  her  with  her  Chinamen,  the  old 
260 


LOST  VALLEY 

man  and  the  young  one — her  arm  almost  affectionately 
placed  under  Jee  Gam's;  and  to-day,  when  she  had  come 
to  him,  she  had  flared  at  once  into  accusation  as  absurd 
and  clumsy  as  it  was  unjust.  It  looked  as  though  she 
wanted  anything  in  the  world  but  her  sister;  and  attacked 
because  she  could  not  defend.  Yet  both  of  them  in  the 
half-lighted  studio  remembered  September  noons  by 
the  brook;  the  same  image,  haled  forth  by  such  differing 
regrets,  held  the  inward  eye  of  both.  To  Arthur  it  was 
only  a  smirched  idyll;  a  dozen  others  could  take  its 
place.  To  Madge  it  was  the  destruction  of  her  one 
gracious  memory,  for  which  she  had  paid  her  all.  Both 
were  young,  and  very,  very  bitter. 

A  knock  at  the  door  gave  Arthur  a  chance  to  move.  It 
was  Desmond  Reilly,  come  for  his  stick.  Reilly  had  ex 
pected  to  find  Arthur  alone:  he  thought  the  young  woman 
would  have  gone.  What  he  had  really  come  for  was  not 
to  pry — though  he  had  left  his  stick — but  to  serve  notice 
on  Burton  that  he  could  not  manage  Juanita.  He  would 
help  him  in  any  other  way;  but  he  loathed  her  and  was 
sure  she  loathed  him. 

When  Reilly  found  the  two  still  confronted,  he  seized 
his  stick  and  made  for  the  door  again.  But  Arthur 
clutched  him  firmly.  "I  want  you,  Desmond.  I  should 
like  to  present  you  to  Miss  Madge  Lockerby." 

Madge  bent  her  head  with  dignity.  She  scarcely  looked 
at  Reilly,  which  gave  him  a  chance  to  perceive  that  she 
was  very  handsome.  Arthur  evidently  had  not  only  more 
strings  to  his  bow,  but  strings  of  more  kinds,  than  he  had 
guessed.  This  one  was  very  different  from  the  others. 

"I  must  go,"  Madge  repeated.  There  was  indeed  a 
favor  left  to  ask,  but  how  could  she  ask  it? 

"Wait  a  moment."  It  was  an  order,  pure  and  simple, 
and  something  deep  down  in  her  obeyed  instinctively. 

Burton  put  his  hand  on  her  arm  and  guided  her  to  the 

261 


LOST  VALLEY 

spot  where  Lola  reigned  under  the  lamp.    Reilly  followed 
at  a  distance.     Then  Arthur  folded  his  arms. 

"I'd  like  you  to  answer  a  question,  Desmond,"  he  said. 
"How  long  ago  did  I  paint  this?" 

"Last  autumn,  if  I  remember — or  early  winter." 

"November,  to  be  exact.  Will  you  kindly  give  Miss 
Lockerby  the  benefit  of  your  recollections — if  you  have 
any — as  to  the  conditions  under  which  it  was  painted?" 

Desmond  Reilly  was  very  quick  in  the  uptake.  He  did 
not  know  why  he  was  asked,  but  he  did  not  let  perplexity 
scotch  his  readiness. 

"I  seem  to  remember,"  he  said  quietly,  "that  you  did 
it  a  good  deal  from  sketches.  It  was  some  little  girl  you 
ran  across  up  in  that  place  where  you  were  doing  a  com 
mission  for  John  Lawrence,  wasn't  it?" 

"It  was."    Arthur  seemed  to  wait  for  more, 

"I  remember  hanging  round  once  or  twice  when  you 
were  working  at  it.  But  I  don't  remember  anything  else." 

"Did  I  have  a  model  in  the  studio  at  those  times?" 

"Not  when  I  was  here.  Certainly  not  for  this.  Wasn't 
it  your  whole  point  that  the  girl  was  unique?  That's  why 
it  irked  you  until  you  had  her  dowrn.  You  used  to  recall 
little  things  you  hadn't  had  time  to  get  into  your  sketch 
book.  It's  a  bully  piece  of  work." 

"You  never  at  any  time,  for  example,  got  the  notion 
that  I  had  any  access  to  the  original  while  I  was  painting 
it?" 

Reilly  twisted  his  lips — a  familiar  trick  of  his  when 
thinking.  "Why,  no.  I'm  sure  you  told  me  that  she  be 
longed  up  in  that  God-forsaken  place  where  your  father 
and  John  Lawrence  were  born." 

Arthur  uncrossed  his  arms  and  pointed  at  Madge.  "  The 
subject  of  that  portrait  was  Miss  Lockerby's  half-sister. 
Miss  Lockerby  came  here  a  little  while  ago — just  as  you 
were  leaving — and  saw  the  picture  almost  at  once.  She 


LOST  VALLEY 

immediately  accused  me  of  having  abducted  her  sister. 
Have  you  ever  seen  a  blond,  half-witted  girl  about  the 
place?" 

"  Really,  Burton— " 

"Have  you,  ever?" 

"Of  course  I  haven't,  man."  ("As  if  that  would  prove 
anything  to  a  suspicious  sister!"  he  thought  to  himself.) 

Madge  freed  herself  from  the  tense  group. 

"I  don't  know  what  your  object  is  in  making  me  listen 
to  this,  Mr.  Burton,"  she  said.  "Or  what  that  gentleman 
has  to  do  with  it,  anyway.  I  don't  know  as  you  have  seen 
Lola.  But  when  I'd  been  hunting  the  country  over  for 
her,  nearly  a  year,  and  came  here  and  saw  that,  the  first 
thing  .  .  .  maybe  it  wasn't  so  strange.  You  always  ad 
mired  Lola  so  much."  Desmond  Reilly,  not  being  angry, 
heard  the  bitterness  in  her  tone  which  escaped  Burton. 
So  this  one  was  in  love  with  Arthur,  too.  ...  "I  ask  your 
pardon  if  I've  said  anything  I  shouldn't.  I  don't  under 
stand  it  yet,  but  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  take  your  word 
for  it.  Only,  you  were  so  strange  about  everything — you 
seemed  to  want  to  insult  me  before  I  ever  saw  the  picture. 
...  If  I  could  choose,  I'd  never  lay  eyes  on  you  again.  But 
I  can't  choose.  I've  got  to  find  Lola,  as  I  told  you.  When 
I've  done  that,  everything  will  be  over.  So  I'm  afraid 
I'll  have  to  ask  you  if  old  Maddalena  can  come  and  look 
at  the  picture,  once.  She's  going  to  hunt,  places  where  I 
can't  hunt;  and  if  she  could  see  what  Lola  looks  like,  it 
would  be  better  than  my  telling  her.  Words  aren't  the 
same  thing.  I  hate" — her  voice  deepened,  and  both  men 
were  startled  by  the  exceeding  lowness  of  the  note — "I 
hate  to  ask  it  of  you  more  than  I've  hated  anything  I've 
had  to  do  yet;  but  I  don't  count." 

"Of  course  you  can  bring  her."    Reilly  wondered  why 

Arthur  spoke  so  grudgingly.     The  girl  loved  Arthur,  of 

course;  but  if  he,  Desmond,  knew  anything  of  signs  and 

18  263 


LOST  VALLEY 

portents,  Burton  had  never  been  in  love  with  her.  She 
didn't  speak  like  a  woman  in  that  position.  He  would 
say  with  assurance  that  there  had  never  been  any  intimacy 
between  them. 

"Will  day  after  to-morrow  be  convenient?  Saturday, 
I  needn't  come  so  late.  It  won't  take  five  minutes  for  her 
to  look  at  it." 

"You  can  have  the  thing,  if  you  want,"  Arthur  burst 
out.  "Take  it  away  with  you  now." 

Madge  smiled  faintly.  "No,  thank  you.  I  don't  want 
it.  I  only  want  Maddalena  to  see  it.  Besides,  it  is  prob 
ably  valuable.  And  I  don't  think  you'd  have  had  it  here 
on  an  easel  in  your  studio  if  you  hadn't  thought  a  good 
deal  of  it  yourself.  I'll  bring  Maddalena  Saturday — about 
three  o'clock.  Good-by." 

She  did  not  shake  hands  with  him.  Arthur  began  the 
gesture,  but  she  ignored  it. 

Reilly  stepped  forward.     "Do  you  take  a  car?" 

"Yes— the  Third  Avenue  L." 

"I  thought  you  lived  in  Mulberry  Street,"  threw  in 
Arthur. 

"I  do.  But  I'm  not  going  there  just  yet.  This  will 
take  me  to  Chatham  Square." 

"May  I  go  to  the  Elevated  with  you?"  Reilly  asked. 

Arthur  was  vaguely  displeased,  but  he  had  no  excuse 
for  interfering.  He  watched  them  both  severely. 

"Oh,  thank  you.  I'd  be  much  obliged.  I  don't  know 
my  way  round  up  here  very  well." 

Reilly  smiled.  A  beautiful  young  American  woman — 
he  had  by  this  made  out  that  she  was  not  simply  hand 
some,  but  beautiful — to  whom  the  Village  was  "up," 
was  a  chance  not  to  be  thrown  away. 

"I'll  see  you  as  far  as  you'll  let  me,"  he  said. 

Madge  was  grateful  for  the  courteous  tone,  the  civilized 
voice.  So,  once,  had  Arthur  Burton  spoken  to  her;  and, 
264 


LOST  VALLEY 

ever  since,  her  ears  had  hungered  for  that  note.  She  did 
not  say  to  herself  that  such  a  voice  had  once  deceived 
her.  She  knew  only  that  her  head  was  aching,  that  she 
was  glad  to  be  guided  through  unfamiliar  streets — glad, 
hi  some  nameless  way,  that  since  she  must  go  forth  from 
Burton's  door  all  bruised  and  beaten  by  his  disdain,  she 
need  not  go  alone. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

"  TTAS  Juanita  been  at  you?"  Burton  asked. 

A  A  "Of  course  she  has,"  Reilly  replied.  "You  know 
her  better  than  I  do — thank  God!  Can't  you  shake  her? 
There's  no  accounting  for  tastes,  but  I  should  think  you 
could  pick  up  a  dozen  female  pals  you'd  like  better." 

"Oh,  you  know  how  those  things  go.  ...  You  suddenly 
find  that  a  girl  considers  herself  your  most  intimate 
friend.  You  tell  her  she  isn't,  but  it  makes  no  difference. 
As  far  as  I  can  see,  if  you  ever  like  a  woman  the  least 
little  bit,  for  quarter  of  a  minute,  she  somehow  makes  you 
pay  for  the  privilege." 

"Well,  I've  never  liked  her  the  least  little  bit  for  five 
seconds,  and  I'm  damned  if  I  pay  the  tenth  part  of  a 
Russian  ruble  for  her.  I  know  you've  wanted  me  to 
whistle  her  off;  but  this  isn't  an  aviary.  The  only  way 
you  can  call  off  a  leech  is  by  manual  labor.  And — I  don't 
know  what  she  may  have  said  to  you  since  the  day  before 
yesterday — " 

"She  hasn't  said  one  word,"  interrupted  Arthur.  "She 
hasn't  been  near  the  place.  And  she  left  her  bag  here,  too." 

"She's  been  getting  at  me  instead.  If  you  think  you're 
going  to  escape  telling  Juanita  all  about  the  young  lady 
who  was  here  two  days  ago,  you've  got  another  guess 
coming." 

"I  liked  her  in  the  beginning,"  mused  Arthur.  "Then 
she  began  to  set  too  hot  a  pace  for  me.  But  she  went  out 
West  for  a  year,  and  I  thought  everything  was  all  right. 
Unfortunately  she  came  back  and  wanted  to  begin  all 
266 


LOST  VALLEY 

over  again.  I  wouldn't  speak  this  way  if  there  were  any 
thing  in  it,  you  understand.  But  there  isn't.  Juanita 
has  no  intentions.  But  she  likes  to  think  that  she  and  I 
keep  people  guessing.  It's  all  sham,  if  you  ask  me." 

"Have  you  ever  asked  her,  straight  out,  what  she  does 
want?" 

"Heavens,  no!  I  take  my  cues  when  I'm  amiable,  and 
hold  my  tongue  when  I'm  not.  It's  just  play-acting." 
Arthur  groaned  wearily.  "My  own  fault,  of  course:  I 
played  the  game  in  the  beginning,  because  I  thought  all 
games  had  an  end  sometime.  But  Juanita  '11  never  make 
an  exit  that  doesn't  call  for  another  entrance.  I  tell  you 
she's  not  real.  She  hasn't  any  morals,  but  she  hasn't 
any  passions.  You're  such  a  vehement  creature,  I  thought 
perhaps  you  could  tell  her  where  to  get  off.  I've  never 
been  able  to." 

"I've  told  her  already." 

"What  came  of  it?" 

"Well,  she's  real  enough  to  hate  me.  At  least,  she  is 
capable  of  preferences.  She  distinctly  prefers  you." 

The  conversation  had  been  frank  enough,  but  desul 
tory.  Both  men  were  preoccupied  with  a  woman  not 
Juanita.  Arthur  could  not  bring  himself  to  ask  what  had 
happened  after  Reilly  had  left  his  door  with  Madge 
Lockerby;  Reilly  disliked  to  put  his  ringer  on  the  situa 
tion  first.  Too  much,  he  felt  sure,  lay  beneath  the 
surface. 

Arthur  himself  began  it,  rather  desperately.  After  all, 
Madge  was  due  presently  ...  he  supposed. 

"Did  Miss  Lockerby  say  anything  more,  the  other 
night,  about  coming  up  with  her  Italian  crone?" 

"Not  a  word." 

"Did  you  gather  that  she  was  coming?" 

"I  heard  precisely  what  you  heard.  She  strikes  me 
as  being  a  very  serious  young  person.  In  fact,  I  should 

267 


LOST  VALLEY 

say  her  great  fault  was  lack  of  humor.  On  the  other 
hand,  I  don't  see  much  in  her  situation  to  encourage 
humor." 

Arthur  looked  up,  almost  with  interest.  "Did  you 
make  out  what  her  situation  is?" 

"You  don't  do  justice  to  the  reticence  of  your  dear 
New  England.  About  you  she  said  just  nothing." 

"I  don't  care  what  she  said  or  didn't  say  about  me. 
I've  got  nothing  to  do  with  her.  What  did  she  say 
about  herself?" 

"If  you'll  tell  me  the  nature  of  your  interest  in  the 
young  woman,  perhaps  I'll  tell  you." 

"Oh,  I  see — you're  on  her  side."     Arthur  spoke  bitterly. 

"She  never  told  me  there  was  a  side  to  be  on.  I  hear 
of  it  from  you  for  the  first  time." 

"Nonsense!  I  told  you  the  other  night,  in  her  pres 
ence,  that  she  had  accused  me  of  abducting  her  idiot 
sister." 

Reilly  grinned.  "That's  true!  I  had  forgotten.  Well, 
no  woman  who  was  in  her  right  mind  would  accuse  you 
of  abducting  an  idiot.  Anyone  whom  you  abduct,  Arthur, 
will  be  so  clever  that  she'll  have  done  the  abducting 
herself.  Miss  Lockerby  must  have  been  very  agitated 
when  she  took  that  line." 

"She  was.     But  it  doesn't  excuse  her." 

"Besides,"  Reilly  went  on,  "I  understood  her  to  say 
on  that  occasion  that  she  more  or  less — well,  took  it 
back.  In  fact,  I  seem  to  recall  that  she  apologized,  in 
her  simple  way.  And  of  course  you  do  make  eyes,  you 
know." 

"I  never  made  eyes  at  a  backwoods  half-wit!" 

"Probably  not.  But  are  you  very  sure  you  never 
made  eyes  at  the  girl  who  was  here?" 

Arthur  thought  over  his  ruined  idyll,  made  vivid  for 
him  again  by  the  irruption  of  Madge  Lockerby  into  his 


LOST  VALLEY 

own  place.  They  had  been  good  friends  by  the  brook. 
But  he  had  been  very  careful.  He  remembered — now 
he  put  his  mind  on  it — that  once  at  least  he  had  definitely 
set  bonds  upon  himself.  The  girl  had  been  so  kind,  so 
devoted,  so  docile,  so  responsive,  yet  in  her  own  way  so 
proud.  He  had  smiled  into  the  mirror  of  her  eyes,  and 
she  had  flushed  with  reflected  fire.  Yes,  if  he  chose,  he 
remembered;  remembered  that  this  thing  which  was 
now  past  had  once  been  present.  He  had  forgotten 
that  she  had  ever  stirred  him.  But  now,  even  as  Madge 
had  recalled  the  night  of  the  fire,  Arthur  recalled  the 
evening  in  the  farmhouse  when  he  had  shown  her  his 
sketches.  Before  he  had  done,  he  had  wanted  to  seize 
her,  to  make  definite  and  passionate  love  to  her.  But 
he  had  done  nothing — said  nothing.  He  had  refrained, 
out  of  respect.  The  thought  of  that  respect — which 
he  remembered  now  as  a  simple  fact — made  him  throw 
back  his  head  and  laugh. 

"Made  eyes  at  her?    Never!" 

It  was  not  perhaps  strictly  true,  but  Arthur  cannot 
be  blamed  for  remembering  it  thus. 

Reilly  drew  out  his  pipe,  filled  it,  and  seemed  to  med 
itate. 

"Look  here,  Burton,  I  don't  want  to  mix  in.  But  I 
rather  wish  you'd  make  it  up  with  the  young  lady.  She 
said  nothing  about  you;  but  of  course  I  saw  you  had 
been  giving  her  a  pretty  bad  time."  He  was  curiously 
reluctant  to  tell  Burton  that  the  girl  was  in  love  with  him. 
"I  don't  think  she'll  bother  you  in  any  way.  She'll 
fetch  her  Italian  up  here  perhaps,  and  then  my  guess  is 
that  you'll  never  see  her  again." 

"It  isn't  that  she  bothers  me.     You  don't  understand." 

"Oh  .  .  .  '  Reilly 's  monosyllable  was  like  a  salaam 
of  ceremonious  withdrawal.  He  could  get  a  good  deal 
into  the  exhalation  of  a  single  sound. 

269 


LOST  VALLEY 

Arthur  mused  a  little.  Then  he  spoke  less  petulantly. 
"I  couldn't  explain  it  all  to  you.  You  don't  come  of 
Valley  stock,  in  the  first  place.  Madge  Lockerby  was 
good  to  me,  those  weeks.  I  was  sorry  for  her.  I  liked 
her.  I  never  made  love  to  her — I  fancy,  as  much  as 
anything,  because  we  were  both  Valley  stock.  I  think 
she  liked  me.  She  had  never  seen  anyone  else.  She's 
quite  different  now — then,  she  was  really  beautiful  and 
pathetic." 

"You  mean  that  she  doesn't  strike  you  as  being  either 
at  the  present  moment?" 

"She's  different.  She  still  has  looks.  But  I  shouldn't 
call  her  pathetic.  And  her  looks  are  different  from  what 
they  were." 

"Her  recent  life  hasn't  been  a  beauty  cure." 
"Ah!    You  must  know  more  about  that  than  I  do." 
"Only  what  she  told  me  she  had  told  you." 
"You  thought  her  story  held  water,  did  you?" 
"It's  fantastic,  if  you  like.     But  I  saw  no  reason  to 
doubt  her." 

Burton  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  did  not  want  to 
talk  her  down  to  Reilly.  Let  her  acquire  a  champion,  if 
she  liked.  For  himself — even  granting  her  tale  to  be  true 
— he  did  not  believe  that  Madge  Lockerby,  who  was  less 
sophisticated  than  anyone  he  had  ever  known,  had  lived 
where,  and  as,  she  said  she  had  lived,  without — well,  he 
wouldn't  say,  even  to  himself.  Besides,  Reilly  had  not 
seen  the  two  faces — Madge  as  she  had  been,  and  Madge 
as  she  was.  Ah,  let  Reilly  go  his  way!  This  damosel- 
errant  business:  it  didn't  work.  Not  in  Chinatown,  and 
Mulberry  Street. 

"I  wish  she'd  turn  up.  I  want  this  inspection  over. 
I'm  sick  of  the  whole  thing,"  he  said  irritably. 

"Are  you?    Well,  I'm  exceedingly  interested.    May  I 
stay?" 
270 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake,  if  you  want  her,  take  her!  But 
you  won't  like  it.  She's  not  like  the  kind  of  woman  you 
know.  She's  perfectly  ignorant  of  civilization.  Just  a 
milkmaid — finished  off  in  the  slums." 

Reilly  laughed.  "You  see,  Arthur,  you  persist  in 
treating  her  like  a  piece  of  trash.  Now  I  call  her  a  rather 
interesting  and  complicated  young  woman.  She  has 
dignity;  she  has  beauty;  she  has  self-devotion.  She  can't 
have  been  the  usual  milkmaid;  and  I  think  her  slum  hasn't 
been  the  usual  slum.  I  dare  say  she  is  ignorant  of  a  great 
many  things.  And  I  don't  in  the  least  want  her  for  my 
self — eVen  if  I  could  have  her,  which  I  couldn't.  But  she 
rather  intrigues  me.  A  milkmaid  as  proud  as  that  .  .  . 
who  flings  the  Chinese  classics  at  your  head.  .  .  .  Do  you 
find  the  planet  so  interesting  that  you  can  throw  away 
phenomena  like  that?  I  don't." 

"I  positively  prefer  Juanita." 

"You  lift  a  load  from  me.  After  that,  I  never  have  to 
look  at  Juanita  again."  A  pause  came.  Then  Reilly 
threw  out:  "We're  both  wasting  time.  All  I  wanted 
was  for  you  to  waste  a  little  common  charity  and  some 
decent  manners  on  a  poor  tragic  creature  who  apparently 
fell  in  love  with  you  long  ago,  for  her  sins!  I'm  not 
asking  you  to  kiss  her;  but  you  needn't  stab  her  in  the 
back,  need  you?  Damn  it  all,  man,  you  talk  as  if  you 
had  reason  to  know  she  wasn't  decent!" 

"And  I  suppose  you  think  she  acquired  the  Chinese 
classics  at  a  university." 

"Oh  no,  I  don't.  She  got  them  off  Jee  Gam  in  Doyers 
Street.  Don't  you  know  Jee  Gam?" 

"Oh,  shut  up,  Reilly!  I'm  bored  sick  with  your  rescue 
work." 

"When  I  go  in  for  rescue  work,  I  give  you  the  right  to 
be  bored."  Desmond's  gray-green  eyes  narrowed  and 
dilated  like  a  cat's.  They  had  that  trick. 

271 


LOST  VALLEY 

"All  I  mean  is  that  when  a  girl  of  Madge  Lockerby's 
background  becomes  an  habituee  of  Chinatown — wanders 
round,  bras  dessus,  bras  dessous,  with  Chinks,  and  gets 
leered  at  by  the  whole  of  Pell  Street — why,  I  find  it  hard 
to  believe  that  she  is  simply  cultivating  her  mind.  I 
think  she  has,  in  all  probability,  fallen  pretty  low.  A 
damsel  with  more  mental  resources  might  be  orientalizing 
herself  for  a  fad.  Lost  Valley  is  different.  I've  always 
heard  the  Chinese  were  kind  to  white  women — " 

"Oh,  stow  that  rot!  You're  on  the  wrong  tack  alto 
gether.  Go  back  to  Juanita.  You're  fit  for  nothing  else." 
Desmond  was  breathing  hard.  "Man,  she  loves  you  so 
that  it  has  nearly  killed  her.  I  have  no  intention  of  cram 
ming  you  with  compliments,  but  when  you  begin  to  damn 
her  up  and  down,  it's  too  much.  You  don't  have  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  her;  but  you  could  throw  her  a  kind 
word  before  she  disappears.'* 

"She  doesn't  love  me."  Arthur  shrugged  uneasily. 
"I  don't  want  her  to.  I  won't  have  it.  I've  got  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  Besides,  she  doesn't." 

"All  right.  But  you  might  at  least  be  civil  to  her — and 
then  good-by.  There  she  is." 

Desmond  had  heard  the  knock.  He  went,  himself,  to 
open  the  door.  Arthur  had  said  he  might  stay. 

Madge  entered,  pushing  old  Maddalena  before  her. 
"Cosi  bello!"  murmured  the  somber  crone  as  she  blinked 
at  all  that  lighted  spaciousness. 

Arthur  Burton  came  forward.  He  noticed — his  eye  was 
ever  keen — the  relief  with  which  Madge  Lockerby  greeted 
Reilly:  her  hesitation  to  pass  him  by,  to  leave  his  side. 
So  Reilly  was  her  champion,  was  he?  He'd  see  about 
that!  Then  Arthur  pulled  himself  up.  There  was  no 
good  reason  for  interfering  in  whatever  relation  those 
two  might  create  between  them.  He  had  had  his  say. 
Let  them  hoodwink  each  other,  by  all  means.  His  only 


LOST  VALLEY 

excuse  for  preventing  it  would  be  jealousy.  Was  he 
jealous?  Because  he  knew  that  he  was,  ever  so  faintly, 
just  that,  he  tried  to  mend  his  manners:  to  speak  to  her 
— well,  as  he  would  speak  to  any  woman.  And  he  must 
step  softly  as  a  cat  with  Desmond,  too;  play  the  game 
all  round. 

"Here  is  the  picture,  Miss  Lockerby,"  he  said  gravely, 
drawing  it  from  a  recess  and  placing  it  on  an  easel. 

"Yes.  Come,  Maddalena.  This  is  my  sister."  The 
old  woman  bent  a  nose  to  the  canvas. 

"Do  you  speak  Italian?"  Madge  turned  suddenly 
to  Reilly.  "I  only  know  a  few  words — to  trade  with, 
mostly.  If  you  can  talk  to  her,  I  wish  you  would  tell 
her  that  Mr.  Burton  painted  it  from  memory.  Her 
hair  wasn't  quite  so  light  as  that,  I  think.  And  .  .  . 
she  looked  brighter  when  she  left  me.  Mr.  Burton 
wanted  to  show  she  wasn't  right  in  her  mind,  but  I  think 
he  overdid  it.  Of  course  I  don't  know,  now  .  .  .  she 
may  have  changed." 

Madge  spoke  as  if  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  Reilly 's 
Italian. 

"I  only  know  three  words,"  he  said  apologetically. 

"If  Miss  Lockerby  will  do  me  the  honor  to  make  me 
her  interpreter,  I  will  try."  Arthur,  standing  aloof, 
spoke  very  smoothly. 

Madge  turned  her  head.  "Oh,  thank  you!"  Then 
she  turned  to  the  portrait  again. 

Burton  did  his  best  with  Maddalena.  He  mustered 
a  few  adjectives,  at  least,  and  stemmed  the  torrent  of 
her  questioning  with  awkward  replies.  Madge  and 
Reilly  had  withdrawn  a  little. 

The  old  woman  scanned  the  picture  closely,  bobbing 
her  head  at  strange  angles  as  if  she  wanted  to  take  mental 
measurements  of  every  feature.  It  made  Arthur  sick 
to  have  her  so  near — almost  sniffing  at  it.  Finally  she 

273 


LOST  VALLEY 

drew  back  and  raised  her  head.  The  black  fringed 
shawl  slipped  from  her  thin  hair.  Her  lean  nose  quested 
the  air.  She  focused  the  portrait  in  one  last  passion 
ate  squint.  Then  she  nodded  and  opened  her  mouth, 
where  three  long  teeth  still  uplifted  themselves  from  a 
dark  wilderness  of  gum.  "E  bella!"  She  nodded  again. 
"E  bella!"  She  flung  her  arms  up  and  crooked  a  finger 
of  one  uplifted  hand  toward  the  easel.  Then  she  turned 
to  go,  muttering. 

"What  does  she  say?"  Madge  turned  to  Arthur, 
who  bent  his  ear  to  Maddalena's  speech. 

"She  says  she'll  know  her  if  she  sees  her.  That's 
what  you  wanted,  wasn't  it?" 

"Yes,  thank  you.     We'll  go  now." 

"Oh,  but  you  must  rest — sit  down  for  a  little." 

Burton's  voice  was  kind  enough  now,  and  in  spite  of 
herself,  she  melted  to  it. 

"Must  I?"    Madge  stood  undecided. 

"I  haven't  had  a  good  look  at  you  yet — by  daylight." 

Reilly  grinned  to  himself  as  he  led  Maddalena  to  a 
sofa  and  offered  her  fruit — which  she  pocketed. 

"Oh,  if  that  is  all — I  don't  need  to  sit  down,  thank 
you."  Madge  turned  to  Arthur  and  stood  before  him, 
giving  herself  every  inch'  of  her  height.  She  was  far 
from  smart,  but  in  the  wondrous  bazaars  of  Division 
Street  she  had  bought,  at  queer  figures  with  many  deci 
mals,  clothes  that  did  not  shame  the  Village.  The  blue- 
serge  dress  might  be  shabby  a  few  months  hence,  but 
this  week  it  was  new,  and  the  lines  clung  bravely  to  her 
form.  The  white-lace  collar  gave  her  complexion  a  chance, 
under  the  dark  hat  beneath  which  her  unfashionable  hair 
swept  across  her  forehead  and  temples  in  a  curve  that 
matched  the  bird's  wing  above.  Around  her  neck,  on  a 
long  cord,  hung  a  curious  heavy  ornament  of  jade. 

Arthur  Burton's  eye  dealt  with  the  child  of  Lost  Val- 
274 


LOST  VALLEY 

ley.  His  glance  mounted  from  ankle  to  shoulder,  per 
ceiving  every  curve,  dissimulated  or  confessed.  He  met 
her  eyes,  and  started.  They  were  dark  as  of  old,  but 
deeper — deep  as  a  mine  shaft,  he  thought,  if  a  man  were 
fool  enough  to  explore.  They  said  nothing:  neither 
inviting  nor  repelling,  they  only  showed  you  that  perilous 
profundity.  When  Burton  moved  and  lowered  his  eyes, 
Madge  relaxed  through  her  whole  frame.  It  was  worst 
of  all,  being  looked  at  like  that,  and  having  to  hold  herself 
tense  and  dumb. 

"Well?"  she  breathed.  "You  know  me  now,  Mr. 
Burton.  Have  I  changed?" 

"A  very  great  deal.  But  you  were  always  handsome, 
and  you  are,  still." 

The  impersonality  of  his  tone  was  worse  than  insult 
to  her  ear.  In  that  instant  Madge  knew  that  she  had 
still  hoped  for  a  little  pity  from  the  man  she  loved,  and 
his  voice  dashed  every  hope  to  earth.  There  was  no 
hint  in  it  that  he  found  her  even  human.  But  justice 
was  still  strong  in  Madge's  nature,  and  she  condemned 
herself  more  for  wanting  pity  from  him  than  she  con 
demned  him  for  withholding  it.  To  his  words,  in  words, 
she  could  not  reply,  but  she  let  her  eyes  wander  to  Mad- 
dalena  gesticulating  on  her  sofa,  while  Reilly  plied  her 
with  sweetmeats  from  a  shelf. 

She  did  not  see  that  Arthur,  curious,  intent,  was  looking 
at  her  ornament  of  jade:  she  did  not  even  see  that  he  put 
out  a  finger  to  it  and  drew  his  finger  back  before  he  touched 
the  thing.  She  was  looking  at  the  crone,  and  Reilly;  and 
then  (though  she  still  stood  there  immobile,  obedient) 
her  eyes  fetched  a  wide  arc  to  Juanita,  who,  finding  the 
door  ajar  and  hearing  voices,  had  just  entered  without 
knocking.  Juanita's  entrance  silenced  Reilly;  so  that 
Arthur's  roughened  voice  broke  very  loud  on  the  hush  of 
the  room. 

275 


LOST  VALLEY 

"I'm  sorry  you  don't  like  compliments  on  your  looks. 
Perhaps  you  will  let  me  tell  you  what  a  beautiful  piece  of 
jade  this  is."  His  hand,  that  had  refused  once,  now 
clutched  it.  He  kneaded  it  in  his  fingers,  jerking  a  little 
at  the  cord.  Madge's  head,  giving  to  the  pull,  was  forced 
forward.  But  he  did  not  let  go. 

Desmond  Reilly  saw  that  Arthur  was  unaware  of 
Juanita;  saw,  too,  that  Juanita  was  not  intending  to  be 
tray  her  presence  just  yet.  He  crossed  over  to  them  and 
stood  by,  waiting  for  Arthur  to  have  done.  If  the  ulti 
mate  insult  was  coming,  it  might,  possibly,  come  now. 
Why  did  the  girl  let  him  pull  her  jewelry  about  like  that? 
Just  because  she  loved  him?  Undoubtedly. 

"It  is  interesting,  isn't  it?"  Madge  answered.  Then, 
protesting  against  his  nervous  jerking  of  the  cord,  she  put 
up  her  hands  to  take  the  thing  from  her  neck.  "You  can 
see  it  better  if  I  take  it  off."  Her  eyes  left  Juanita,  whom 
she  had  noticed  indeed,  but  without  interest. 

"No.  I  don't  want  it!"  He  flung  the  bit  of  jade  from 
him  so  that  it  rocked  like  a  sentient  thing  at  the  end  of 
its  cord.  And,  as  if  it  were  a  sentient  thing,  Madge's  hand 
stilled  and  soothed  it. 

"Where  did  you  get  it?    It's  good  jade." 

"I'll  bet  a  hat  I  know,"  Reilly  threw  in.  "Jee  Gam 
gave  it  to  her — didn't  he,  Miss  Lockerby?" 

"Yes.  He  did.  For  sweeping  out  his  cellar.  I  like  it, 
because  I  haven't  got  anything  else — oh,  and  for  Jee  Gam's 
sake,  too — but  I  didn't  know  it  was  beautiful  until  you 
told  me,  Mr.  Burton.  Like  the  shadows  on  Roundtop." 

She  smiled  a  little,  and  bit  her  lip  to  keep  tears  back. 
After  all,  the  vision  of  Roundtop  was  between  them: 
those  autumn  hours  in  the  Valley  were  as  real  as  these. 
She  spoke  but  the  truth. 

Juanita,  who  had  been  postponing  her  return  to  the 
studio — like  a  bonne  bouche  not  to  be  gobbled  aforetime — 
£76 


LOST  VALLEY 

now  stepped  forward  well  into  the  range  of  Arthur's 
vision. 

"Won't  you  introduce  me,  Arthur?"  she  asked.  Her 
intolerable  air  of  proprietorship  was  not  all  assumed. 
She  could  not  help  showing,  in  every  motion,  that  she  had 
the  long  habit  of  the  place:  she  ignored  the  studio  as  if  it 
were  her  own.  No  one  there  could  be  expected  to  notice 
her  manner — in  a  sense,  her  absence  of  manner — except 
Madge.  On  her  it  was  not  lost. 

Arthur  performed  the  task  required  of  him.  Reilly 
edged  a  little  nearer  to  Madge  Lockerby's  side.  What 
ever  she  was,  he'd  back  her  against  the  woman  who  had 
just  pushed  in. 

"And  may  I  see  the  jade  you're  talking  about?"  Ju- 
anita  went  on  in  her  high  voice. 

Without  speaking,  Madge  removed  the  ornament  and 
handed  it  to  her.  Juanita  examined  it  as  closely  as  if  it 
could  solve  the  riddle. 

Desmond  Reilly 's  lips  twisted  as  he  watched.  "Tell 
them  about  Jee  Gam,  Miss  Lockerby." 

"Jee  Gam?  There's  nothing  to  tell.  I've  been  going 
there  for  months  to  sweep  out  his  room;  and  lately  I've 
dusted  the  dulcimer.  He  thinks  I  ought  to  stop  looking 
for  Lola.  He  has  funny  ideas.  .  .  .  He  doesn't  believe  in 
action.  He  thinks  if  you  fold  your  hands,  all  will  come 
right.  And  of  course  I  can't  talk  to  him  much  except 
when  Quong  Wah  is  there.  But  he  has  been  good  to  me 
— and  he  gave  me  this,  the  other  day,  for  cleaning  the 
dulcimer.  He's  blind,  of  course,"  she  added. 

"Who  is  Lola?"  Juanita  asked  as  one  who  has  every 
right. 

Madge  flushed  under  the  tone.  But,  for  all  she  knew, 
Juanita  did  have  every  right. 

"That  is  Lola."    She  pointed  to  the  easel. 

"Oh-hf '  Juanita — swinging  the  bit  of  jade  on  its  cord 

277 


LOST  VALLEY 

as  if  it  belonged  to  her — shot  a  hundred  silent  inquiries 
at  Arthur  Burton. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Miss  Lockerby's  half- 
sister." 

"I  see.  You're  from  that  up-country  place  where  he 
was  painting.  ..."  Her  eyes  wove  back  and  forth  be 
tween  them.  Arthur  had  been  very  silent  in  that  up- 
country  place — never  writing. 

"And  you  got  tired  of  it,"  she  went  on,  "and  decided 
to  come  to  New  York.  I  don't  wonder.  And  you've 
picked  up  some  wonderful  jade  in  Chinatown — the  kind 
they  keep  for  their  friends.  At  least,  I  can't  get  jade 
like  that — not  being  a  millionaire.  Is  your  sister  with 
you?" 

Reilly  still  forbore.  As  long  as  Madge  could  stand  up, 
unaided,  before  Juanita's  impertinent  inquisitorial  tone, 
he  would  hold  his  tongue. 

"I  don't  think  I  can  tell  you  about  my  sister,"  Madge 
answered  her.  "I  have  only  spoken  about  her  to  people 
who  knew  her,  or  could  help  me." 

"Oh,  I  see!    It's  a  mystery."    Juanita  laughed. 

"Unfortunately  it  is."  Madge's  voice  shook  a  little, 
but  she  had  never  held  her  head  higher. 

"And  is  she  in  the  mystery,  too?"  Juanita  jerked  her 
head  at  Maddalena  left  alone  and  unguarded,  busily 
chewing,  on  her  sofa. 

Madge  turned  to  Arthur.  "Mr.  Burton,  if  this  lady 
has  to  know  about  my  affairs,  will  you  please  explain  to 
her  after  I'm  gone?" 

"I'll  explain  nothing,"  Burton  said  unexpectedly. 
"They're  your  affairs — by  no  means  hers.  Where  are 
your  manners,  Juanita?" 

The  young  woman  threw  her  head  back  and  laughed. 
"Where  are  yours,  if  it  comes  to  that?    I'm  sorry  if  I've 
shown  my  curiosity  unduly." 
278 


LOST  VALLEY 

She  handed  back  the  bit  of  jade.  "  If  you  ever  want  to 
sell  that,"  she  said,  "take  it  to  a  really  good  place  and 
get  a  really  good  price  for  it.  Don't  hand  it  back  to  the 
Chinks.  They  might  do  you  over  it.  Bring  it  uptown." 

"Your  bag  is  over  on  that  chest,  Juanita."  Arthur 
spoke  sharply.  "I  suppose  that  is  what  you  came  for." 

"Yes,  I  did,  thanks.  Only  I  hoped  you  would  give  me 
some  tea.  I  didn't  know  you  were  having  a  party." 

"As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  he's  not  having  a  party." 
Madge  moved  forward.  "Mr.  Burton  let  me  bring  old 
Maddalena  to  see  my  sister's  picture.  She  has  seen  it; 
and  now  we  are  going." 

"  Oh !  I  was  so  afraid  I  had  interrupted.  I'm  afraid  I 
have,  you  know.  The  least  I  can  do  is  to  go,  myself,  I 
think.  Are  you  walking  my  way,  I  wonder?  " 

"  Maddalena  can't  walk.  It's  too  far.  We  live  in  Mul 
berry  Street." 

Juanita  smiled.  "No,  that's  not  a  bit  in  my  direc 
tion.  How  very  interesting!  Are  you  doing  settlement 
work?" 

Madge  Lockerby  had  learned  in  a  year  that  there  are 
some  questions  you  need  not  answer.  She  paid  no  atten 
tion  to  this  one. 

"Come,  Maddalena.  Good-by,  Mr.  Burton.  And 
thank  you."  This  time,  she  offered  her  hand  to  Arthur. 
The  abyss  between  them  was  deep,  and  more  than  prob 
ably  neither  would  ever  again  stand  on  the  brink  of  it. 
Nor  were  her  thanks  perfunctory.  They  meant  some 
thing,  at  all  events,  to  her.  He  had  taken  back  everything 
that  was  in  his  power;  but  there  were  gifts  of  the  spirit 
that  remained  with  her. 

"Good-by."  Arthur  held  her  hand  a  moment.  "If 
you  do  find  Lola,  will  you  let  me  know?" 

"Oh,  I  can't  promise.     There's  no  telling  where  this 
thing  will  end." 
19  279 


LOST  VALLEY 

"It  wouldn't  cost  you  much  to  send  me  a  postcard." 

"You  can't  be  the  judge  of  what  it  would  cost.  And  I 
may  die  before  I  find  her." 

"Anything  in  the  world  may  happen  to  any  of  us.  But 
I  wish  you  would  promise.  And — another  thing.  .  .  ." 

"Yes?"  Who  could  blame  her  for  lingering  a  moment 
to  fill  her  ears  with  the  long-lost  voice,  turned  kind 
again? 

"If  you  ever  do  sell  that  bit  of  jade" — he  almost  whis 
pered  this — "sell  it  to  me,  will  you?  I  can't  give  you  the 
price  Juanita  hints  at;  but  I  can  always  give  you  enough 
to  get  back  to  Lost  Valley.  Do  you  see?  " 

But  Madge  did  not  see,  for  of  Arthur's  suspicions  she 
was  totally  ignorant. 

"I  shall  never  sell  it  unless  Lola  needs  something.  If 
you  knew  Jee  Gam,  you  would  see  why." 

"Well,  then," — he  drew  his  breath  deeply — "if  you 
ever  want  to  go  back  and  haven't  the  money,  come  to 
me  anyhow.  Will  you?"  Still  he  wras  almost  whisper 
ing.  Reilly,  midway  between  them  and  Juanita,  stood 
guard. 

"If  I  were  ever  in  great  need — "  she  began. 

"I  didn't  say  'in  great  need.'  I  said  if  you  wanted  to 
go  back  to  Lost  Valley.  For  that,  I'm  willing  and  glad  to 
put  up  the  money,  any  day,  any  hour." 

Madge  smiled  faintly.  "Suppose  I  wanted  to  go  some 
where  else?" 

"Not  a  penny,  then."    He  flushed  and  turned  away. 

In  another  moment,  Madge  and  Maddalena  had  left 
the  studio.  Reilly,  who  had  had  every  intention  of  accom 
panying  them,  stayed  behind.  For  Juanita  had  shame 
lessly  remained. 

Their  steps  had  barely  died  away  down  the  stairs  before 
Juanita  spoke.  "I  know  you  want  to  be  rid  of  me,  and  I 
won't  stay  for  tea.  But  you  can't  be  so  merciless  as  not 
280 


LOST  VALLEY 

to  tell  Desmond  and  me  about  this.  The  idiot  on  the 
easel;  that  handsome  country  girl  and  the  old  Italian  hag; 
Mulberry  Street;  Chinese  jade!  It's  a  movie,  Arthur, 
and  we  long  since  agreed  we  had  no  right  to  keep  our 
movies  from  our  friends.  Be  a  good  boy,  do!"  She  had 
lighted  a  cigarette  and  now  spoke  more  slowly.  "  If  there 
were  anything  private  in  it,  I  wouldn't  ask.  But  there 
can't  be,  in  this.  And  life  is  so  dull.  I'll  go  in  ten  minutes, 
if  you'll  tell  me." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it.  I  knew  the  family 
up  in  Lost  Valley.  Naturally  I  had  never  heard  anything 
more  of  them  till  this  girl  turned  up  here  the  other  day. 
She  says  she  is  looking  for  her  sister,  who  seems  to  have 
been  kidnaped  by  an  Italian  organ  grinder.  She  saw  the 
picture  on  the  easel — you  had  made  me  get  it  out,  if  you 
remember — and  proceeded  to  make  me  a  scene.  She 
thought  I  must  have  seen  the  girl  since  I  was  up  there. 
But  I  explained  that  it  was  possible  to  paint  from  memory, 
and  apparently  she  took  it  back.  Desmond  says  she  did. 
I  really  don't  remember." 

"I  don't  want  to  interfere  with  your  own  way  of 
telling  your  story,"  Juanita  said  carelessly;  "and  if  it 
is  private,  for  God's  sake,  say  so,  and  I'll  shut  up. 
But — are  you  quite  accurate?  When  she  came  in,  the 
other  day,  as  we  were  all  leaving,  you  greeted  her  as  if 
you  had  seen  her  .  .  .  rather  recently.  Is  it  my  cue  to 
go  now,  and  never  return?  "  She  half  rose,  with  a  gesture 
of  mock-terror. 

Reilly's  gray-green  eyes  clung  to  her  every  motion. 

"I  don't  remember  how  I  greeted  her.  But  I  recog 
nized  her  at  once.  She  was  Madge  Lockerby  of  Lost 
Valley  .  .  .  and  I  had  seen  her  recently" — he  tossed 
his  head — "not  very  worshipfully  accompanied." 

"That's  a  damned  lie!"  Reilly  considered  he  had 
been  slow  to  wrath;  but  now  the  moment  had  come. 

281 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Oh-h!"  Juanita  breathed  her  content,  and  her  eyes 
shone.  She  had  not  hoped  for  such  fun  as  this. 

Arthur  sprang  up,  his  fists  clenched.  His  reaction 
to  Reilly's  words  was  purely  automatic  and  instinctive. 

"Don't  fight,  don't  fight,"  said  Juanita  impatiently. 
"Just  explain.  There's  nothing  to  fight  about.  It's 
only  a  question  of  the  evidence." 

But  the  two  men  had  forgotten  her.  They  faced  each 
other,  breathing  hard. 

"You'll  take  that  back,"  Arthur  stated. 

"I'll  take  it  back  when  you  give  me  some  reason  to." 

"She's  been  living  in  a  slum  since  God  knows  when — 
and  with  my  own  eyes  I  saw  her  in  Pell  Street,  arm  in 
arm  with  two  Chinamen,  and  all  Pell  Street  winking  at 
them  behind  their  backs." 

"And  you  are  willing  to  confess  that  you  can't  find 
any  solution  but  the  one  Pell  Street  has  leaped  at." 

"I  trust  Pell  Street,  in  such  a  case,  to  know." 

"Knowing  as  much  as  you  know  about  this  girl's  his 
tory — about  the  way  she  has  been  dragged  from  her 
valley  to  search  for  her  sister — you  still  can't  see  any 
explanation  for  her  behavior  except  that  she's  become 
a  disreputable  woman?  If  her  sister  is  in  New  York, 
she's  in  a  slum,  isn't  she?  Where  would  Madge  Lockerby 
be  looking  for  her  except  in  a  sink  of  iniquity?" 

"I  don't  want  to  damn  the  girl.  .  .  .  But  I  trust  Pell 
Street.  Does  she  have  to  sweep  out  a  Chink's  room 
months  on  end,  to  find  her  sister?  And  she  comes  up 
here  sporting  her  damned  jade  present  from  her  damned 
yellow  friend!" 

"And  I  say"— put  in  Reilly— "that  you  can't  infer 
about  Madge  Lockerby  from  Lost  Valley  what  you 
would  infer  about  any  female.  She's  been  brought  into 
that  neighborhood  by  no  fault  of  her  own — because  her 
duty  took  her  there.  If  you  found  Juanita  hobnobbing 
282 


LOST  VALLEY 

with  Chinks" — he  went  on  smoothly — "I  grant  you 
there'd  be  only  one  construction  to  put  on  it.  But  Miss 
Lockerby's  case  is  different." 

"You'll  stand  for  that,  Arthur,  will  you?"  The  girl's 
voice  trembled  with  anger. 

"Stand  for  it?  He  didn't  say  anything  but  'if. '  You 
don't  hobnob  with  Chinks,  so  no  bones  are  broken.  If 
Desmond  insulted  you,  Juanita,  I  should  hit  him,  of 
course."  He  yawned  a  little. 

"Thank  you.  We  differ  a  little  as  to  what  constitutes 
insult."  She  rose  and  stood,  breathing  hard. 

"I'll  insult  her  any  minute,  if  you  want  a  chance  to 
hit  me,  Arthur."  Desmond  contrived,  with  his  remark 
able  voice,  to  mingle  punctilio  and  anxiety  in  a  perfect 
blend. 

The  tension  snapped.  Arthur  Burton  found  himself, 
to  his  immense  mental  relief  and  physical  discomfort, 
laughing  uncontrollably.  "Oh,  good  boy,  Desmond!" 
he  ejaculated  weakly.  "Erin  to  the  rescue!"  He  flung 
himself  on  the  big  davenport  and  bit  a  pillow  in  his  vain 
effort  to  stop  the  cruel,  welling  laughter.  The  tears  came; 
he  rolled  about  hysterically. 

Juanita's  angry  flush  faded  like  a  sunset.  Twilight 
seemed  to  have  fallen  on  her  graying  cheek,  as  she  walked 
to  the  door.  She  stopped  there.  She  wanted  desper 
ately  to  speak,  but  she  could  think  of  no  words  to  fit. 
Those  two  had  so  completely  forgotten  her  that  only 
some  terrible  phrase  would  draw  their  notice;  and  the 
terrible  phrase  eluded  her.  She  was,  for  the  moment, 
blotted  out.  They  had  made  a  jest  of  her — and  let  her 
go.  She  was  not  even  the  heart  of  the  jest:  only  the 
casual  cue  for  mirth.  .  .  .  With  no  word  of  farewell, 
she  left  them,  clutching  her  bag,  wilich  she  had  swooped 
upon  and  snatched  in  transit.  It  was  a  melancholy 
figure  that  descended  the  stairs. 


LOST  VALLEY 

Behind  the  closed  door  of  the  studio,  Desmond  Reilly 
with  set  jaws  watched  his  handiwork:  Arthur  frankly 
gripped  with  hysteria,  laughing  as  if  he  could  not  stop, 
at — he  had  forgotten  what.  The  tardy  brakes  applied 
themselves  at  last;  the  fit  wore  itself  out.  He  looked 
up  at  the  truculent  Desmond,  wiped  his  eyes,  and  sat 
upright. 

"Humph!"  Reilly  folded  his  arms  as  he  looked  down 
at  Arthur.  "Now,  if  you've  quite  finished  making  an 
ass  of  yourself,  I'll  talk  to  you.  You  haven't  given  me 
a  chance  yet — not  once.  I  propose  to  tell  you  about  Jee 
Gam.  I've  known  him  for  years." 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

MADDALENA  had  gone.  Her  report  had  been  opti 
mistic,  and  she  had  almost  promised  great  things 
for  the  immediate  future.  Madge,  sitting  by  her  narrow 
window,  wondered  just  why  Maddalena  took  the  trouble. 
Probably  she  would  never  know.  She  could  only  go 
blindly  on,  being  grateful  for  that  taciturn  activity. 

The  air  that  blew  in  against  her  forehead  was  warm  if 
not  tonic;  but  little  convulsive  shivers  stirred  her  flesh. 
She  dreaded  the  next  days  and  feared  them.  For  nearly 
a  year  Madge  Lockerby  had  set  herself  to  a  task  that 
needed  patience  and  far-flung  hypotheses  of  hope.  She 
was  wont  to  see  the  goal  far  ahead :  to  plan  for  journeying 
but  never  for  arrival.  The  longer  her  quest  endured,  the 
less  chance  of  its  having  a  happy  end.  The  months  that 
were  fashioning  her  in  subtle  and  painful  ways  must  be 
working  far  more  grimly  on  the  weaker  creature  whom 
she  sought.  Delay  was  not  only  delay:  it  was  God  knew 
what  degeneration,  over  there  in  the  darkness,  where  Lola, 
unseen,  stepped  along  her  own  converging  path.  Madge's 
throat  was  parched  by  the  postponement;  but,  worse 
than  that,  the  very  cup  she  craved  was  growing  bitterer 
and  bitterer  each  day  it  was  withheld.  She  wanted  to 
find  Lola;  she  could  now  barely  remember  the  years  when 
she  had  wanted  anything  else.  Yet  every  day  she  dreaded 
that  discovery  more.  She  was  set  and  timed  for  the  pace 
and  processes  of  search.  What  should  she  do  when  she 
found  her?  God  knew! 

"I  won't  think,  now,"  she  murmured.  "How  can  I 

285 


LOST  VALLEY 

tell?"    The  shivers  raced  less  violently  as  the  sunset  hour 
soothed  and  strengthened  her. 

Madge's  room  was  small,  and  in  spite  of  her  valiancy, 
it  was  dirty.  No  one  can  live  on  the  top  floor  of  a  Mul 
berry  Street  tenement  and  surround  herself  with  purity. 
Sanitation  was  a  thing  imposed  from  without  on  the 
tenants,  and,  without  co-operation,  sanitation  does  not  go 
very  far.  More  things  crowded  the  stairs  than  even  a 
landlord  could  have  dreamed  of,  and  the  fire  escapes  held 
all  the  objects  that  smelled  too  strong  to  be  kept  inside. 

Occasionally,  girls  from  the  factory  looked  her  up, 
though  she  did  not  encourage  them.  Their  slinking  eyes 
and  frizzled  hair  made  her  uncomfortable.  In  Lost  Valley, 
Madge  was  familiar  enough  with  Jews — via  the  Bible. 
But  on  the  East  Side  of  New  York  they  seemed  very 
strange  to  her:  not  the  stuff  of  which  one  makes  friends. 
Madge  had  made  it  a  rule  to  be  civil  to  everyone  who  was 
civil  to  her;  but  she  never  asked  anyone  to  come  again. 
Once  in  a  while,  not  to  seem  hostile,  she  joined  some  of 
them  at  a  picture  palace;  but  after  a  long  day  in  their 
company,  she  longed  for  quiet.  Now  and  then  she  bought 
a  paper-covered  book  and  read  it  of  an  evening  by  her 
smelly  lamp.  More  often  she  wandered  to  Jee  Gam's. 

"I  must  get  my  supper,"  she  murmured  to  herself  after 
she  had  stilled  the  thoughts  that  Maddalena  had  left 
behind  her  like  an  evil  gift.  She  took  in  the  milk,  lifted  a 
box  of  shredded  wheat  and  two  bananas  from  a  shelf 
behind  a  curtain,  and  spread  her  cloth  upon  the  table  by 
the  window.  Some  cold  ham,  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  a  tiny 
pat  of  real  butter  (out  of  a  tin  box  that  cuddled  in  a  corner 
of  the  fire  escape)  completed  the  banquet.  She  ate 
slowly,  in  the  fading  glow,  then  fetched  water  and 
washed  her  dishes.  After  drying  her  hands,  she  rubbed 
them  with  cold  cream.  It  always  seemed  to  her,  in  Mul 
berry  Street,  that  odors  clung  to  one.  She  had  never 


LOST  VALLEY 

noticed  dishwater  at  home,  but  here  nothing  was  clean; 
everything  smelled  of  a  hundred  other  things.  Then  she 
stood  before  her  little  bureau  and  shook  scented  talcum 
powder  into  the  hollow  of  her  bosom,  where  the  V  of  her 
blouse  narrowed. 

Should  she  go  and  listen  to  the  dulcimer?  She  craved 
the  narrowness,  the  quiet,  of  that  curved  corridor  of  a 
street,  the  cool  half-earthy  smell  of  the  spotless  cellar. 
But  now  the  nights  were  mild,  and  more  people  came, 
paying  their  shot  to  see  Jee  Gam.  She  did  not  mind  one 
or  two  calm  Chinese,  approving  the  music;  but  she  hated 
the  uptown  tourists.  No,  she  would  not  go  there.  Yet 
she  did  not  like  to  stay  at  home.  Since  Maddalena,  the 
day  before,  had  warned  her  there  might  be  work  afoot  for 
her,  she  had  decided  to  absent  herself  from  the  factory  for 
a  few  days.  She  had  told  the  forewoman  she  was  not  well, 
and  had  left  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  to  give  color 
to  it.  Even  that  lie  she  had  hated  to  tell,  but  there  was 
no  other  way.  It  had  this  practical  disadvantage:  that 
perhaps  some  of  the  girls  might  come  to  see  how  she  was. 
Sadie,  and  Rebekah,  and  Violet  with  the  crossed  eyes  and 
pendulous  lip,  were  kind.  They  might  try  to  do  something 
for  her.  She  could  not  bear  either  their  ministrations  or 
the  suspicions  her  perfect  health  must  arouse.  Only 
beautiful  people,  Madge  thought  quaintly,  should  be  kind. 

She  rose,  to  put  on  her  hat  with  the  curving  wing. 
Though  she  was  on  the  top  floor,  at  the  back,  the  room  was 
filled  with  clamor.  She  heard  fire  engines  somewhere; 
and  the  clamor  lessened  a  little  as  the  children  followed 
the  engines.  But  they  wrould  come  back  noisier  than  ever. 
That  must  be  her  comfort  for  being  driven  forth. 

The  sound  of  a  knock  beat  sharply  on  her  ear.  Violet, 
probably!  She  took  off  her  hat  and  flung  it  on  the  bed, 
and  answered  the  knock  without  stopping  to  smooth  her 
hair  that  the  hat  had  crushed  and  disheveled. 

287 


LOST  VALLEY 

It  was  not  Violet — who  had  a  date  of  her  own  else 
where,  along  with  Sadie  and  Rebekah.  For  a  moment 
Madge  did  not  recognize  the  figure  on  the  shadowy 
threshold.  Then  the  figure  stepped  out  of  the  odorous 
cavern  of  the  hall  into  the  clean  twilight  of  her  room, 
and  she  knew  it  for  Desmond  Reilly. 

"Oh!"  It  was  all  she  could  say.  She  could  neither 
drive  him  out  nor  make  him  gracefully  welcome.  Des 
mond,  however,  had  braced  himself  to  deal  with  awkward 
ness,  and  he  ignored  everything  but  his  hostess. 

"I  hope  you'll  pardon  my  coming,  like  this,  without 
announcement,"  he  began.  "I  wanted  to  find  you,  and 
didn't  know  how  else  to  reach  you." 

Madge  took  a  curious  comfort  from  the  spectacle  of 
her  hat  on  the  bed.  It  suggested  outdoors  and  the 
thronged  streets;  it  mitigated  the  cramped  and  shabby 
intimacy  of  the  scene.  But  nothing  in  the  world,  she 
thought,  could  mitigate  the  washstand. 

Reilly  guessed  her  embarrassment,  and  walked  to  the 
window.  "May  I  look  out  at  your  roof  line?"  he  asked. 
He  would  not  sit  down  until  she  asked  him. 

It  was  better  when  he  stood  there,  his  back  to  the 
room,  communing  with  that  prospect.  Madge  slid  her 
toothbrush  and  towels  into  a  drawer,  while  he  said  pleas 
ant  picturesque  nothings  about  the  clustering,  crowded 
stairways  of  the  poor. 

"The  fact  is"— he  turned  at  last— "I  wanted  to  talk 
to  you  a  bit.  May  I  stay  for  a  little?" 

Madge  felt  helpless.  Since  he  wanted  to  stay — well, 
he  would  have  to.  This  gentleman  had  been  very  kind, 
very  considerate.  He  had  done  his  best  to  shield  her 
from  Arthur's  brusqueness.  A  week  ago  he  had  sat  in 
Jee  Gam's  cellar  with  her,  listening  to  the  dulcimer.  Ke 
had  a  sort  of  right. 

"Be  seated,  won't  you?"    She  drew  up  a  wooden  chair. 


LOST  VALLEY 

He  had  made  his  point,  and  was  determined  to  be 
generous.  "If  you'd  rather  go  outside  somewhere,  we 
will.  But  it  is  hard  to  talk  in  public,  in  a  crowd,  don't 
you  think?  About  intimate  things?  You  mustn't  mind 
me,  you  know.  ...  I  only  want  to  be  of  use  to  you  ..." 

"I  don't  know  as  anyone  except  old  Maddalena  can 
be  of  use  to  me  now."  She  seated  herself  beside  him. 
Both  had  their  faces  turned  to  the  narrow  window,  as 
if  they  were  watching  a  play. 

"Does  she  think  she  is  on  the  track?" 

"Yes.  I'm  not  going  to  the  factory  to-morrow  or 
the  day  after.  She  thinks  she  may  want  me  to  go  with 
her  any  minute.  It's  as  near  as  that — perhaps," 

"  I  see.  And  you  are  going  to  be  quite  safe?  Oughtn't 
you  to  have  some  one  along,  you  and  Maddalena?" 

"I  tried  that  once — in  Boston.  It  didn't  wrork.  I 
guess  I'd  better  go  alone." 

"I  wonder."  He  mused  a  little.  "The  fact  is,  Miss 
Lockerby,  I  think  this  the  moment  when  you  need  a 
man.  Burton  would  be  the  natural  person,  but  you 
and  he  don't  seem  to  hit  it  off  very  well.  The  best  friends 
do  have  misunderstandings  at  times." 

"He's  not  my  best  friend,"  Madge  said  coldly.  "I 
don't  think  he  is  my  friend  at  all.  I'll  tell  you  frankly, 
Mr.  Reilly,  I've  been  disappointed.  He  was  not  like 
this  in  Lost  Valley.  I  wouldn't  have  asked  anything 
hard  of  him  anyway — I'd  never  have  bothered  him  or 
his  friends.  I  guess  half  the  trouble  with  us  Lockerbys 
is  that  we  stand  on  ceremony  too  much.  I  thought  I 
made  it  plain  to  him  that  I  wasn't  dreaming  of  pushing 
in.  I  don't  see — I  suppose  I'll  never  see — why  he  was 
so  harsh  to  me.  It  was  as  if  I'd  wronged  him  in  some 
way.  I  should  like  to  know  what  it  all  means.  But 
of  course  I  never  shall — and  it  doesn't  matter,  it  doesn't 
matter."  Her  voice  told  him  plainly  how  much  it  mat- 

289 


LOST  VALLEY 

tered.  But  she  lifted  her  head.  "I  shaVt  ever  see 
him  again,  I  think.  And  I  guess  I'd  better  not  see  his 
friends.  Thank  you,  just  the  same." 

"Arthur  will  come  to  his  senses,  sometime,"  Reilly 
answered  slowly.  "And  then  he  will  be  glad  that  one 
of  his  friends  stood  by — since  he  was  fool  enough  not  to." 

"I'd  rather  not  be  beholden  to  any  of  Mr.  Burton's 
friends." 

"I'm  not  his  friend  in  this  matter,  so  much  as  I'm 
yours." 

"Oh  .  .  .  that's  very  good  of  you.  But  I  guess  it 
wasn't  meant  I  should  have  friends  here — except  Jee 
Gam  and  Maddalena." 

"I  grant  you  Jee  Gam.  I've  dropped  in  on  him,  now 
and  again,  for  years.  How  did  you  happen  to  run  across 
him?" 

The  room  behind  them  was  a  pool  of  darkness:  they 
sat  on  its  outer  edge,  saved  by  the  countless  points  of 
light  that  faced  them,  from  being  merged  in  obscurity. 
A  step  back,  and  they  would  have  been  swallowed  up. 
They  seemed  to  Reilly  to  be  clinging  to  a  narrow  fore 
shore  of  light  ...  as  if  the  darkness  behind  them  pulled 
and  pulled  with  more  than  moral  force.  Desmond  could 
see  Madge's  face  only  dimly,  as  if  by  starlight;  but  his 
sense  of  her  presence  was  reinforced  by  the  faint  scent  of 
her  powder.  Her  voice  was  very  low,  as  she  talked  to 
him  of  the  accident  that  had  led  her  to  Jee  Gam,  and  the 
habit  that  had  ensued.  For  the  first  time,  she  seemed  to 
him  a  romantic  figure.  The  darkness,  her  faintly  pricked- 
out  profile,  the  perfume  that  wandered  about  her,  the 
picaresque  and  innocent  tale  she  told — back  of  all  that 
the  classic  elements  of  drama  sweepingly  washed  in  ... 
his  own  imagination  rose  up  to  construct  her  likeness. 
She  was  akin  to  the  venturesome  virgins  of  early  Eliza 
bethan  drama:  "fair  maids  of  the  west"  and  such.  Only 
290 


LOST  VALLEY 

her  temperament  was  other,  and  in  her  drama  the  pieties 
were  more  marked.  And  while  he  dallied  with  this  con 
fection  of  opposites,  he  saw — or  thought  he  did — his  own 
path  plain.  It  was  a  damned  shame  Arthur  took  her  like 
that!  He  had  put  some  sense  into  Burton,  he  hoped,  a 
few  days  since;  but  Arthur  was  still  hipped  on  this  Pell 
Street  business.  And  it  was  all  so  simple.  He,  Reilly, 
believed  what  she  said.  Why?  Not  from  the  habit  of 
credulity.  Rather  because  she  was  so  simple,  so  countri 
fied  still,  so  austere.  And  the  monkey  story  was  too 
fantastic  not  to  be  true. 

"  What  I  really  came  for  was — two  things.  I Ve  got  one 
off  my  chest.  You  won't  let  me  stand  by  when  Madda- 
lena  does  come  for  you?" 

"I  think  it's  better  not.  I've  gone  through  this  thing 
quite  alone.  I'd  better  go  alone  to  the  end." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  when  you  find  her?" 

"Take  her  back!"  Madge's  voice  rose.  "Take  her 
back  where  there's  air  to  breathe  and  sky  to  see,  and 
folks  mind  their  own  business.  It's  a  hard  life  at  home, 
but  it's  not  so  bad  as  this.  And  when  things  get  too  much 
for  you,  there's  some  place  to  go,  to  get  away.  You  can 
climb  through,  the  back  pastures  to  Barker's  Hill,  and 
stand  there  and  see  everything  that  has  troubled  you  get 
small.  ...  Or  go  down  by  the  brook  at  noon.  .  .  ."  Then 
her  voice  changed;  the  lyric  note  died  out  of  it.  "Except 
for  you,  Mr.  Reilly,  there's  been  just  one  person  all  winter 
wiio's  been  kind  to  me  without  being  impertinent.  Old 
Jee  Gam.  You  saw  for  yourself  how  queer  Mr.  Burton 
was.  I  suppose  it's  New  York  makes  him  like  that.  He 
was  like  other  people  in  Lost  Valley — only,  if  anything, 
more  of  a  gentleman." 

"You  mustn't  be  too  hard  on  him." 

"Hard  on  him?  I'm  done  with  him.  If  anyone  had 
told  me  that  Arthur  Burton  wouldn't  be  ordinarily  polite 

291 


LOST  VALLEY 

to  a  woman — any  woman — I'd  have  laughed.  But  so 
it  is." 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  friends  again." 

"Friends?  Do  you  know  the  last  thing  he  said  to  me? 
That  he'd  pay  my  fare  to  Lost  Valley  any  time  I'd  go 
back!  Is  he  afraid  I  can  hurt  him,  'way  down  here,  looking 
for  Lola?" 

"I  don't  think  he  meant  it  that  way.  I  think  his  desire 
to  get  you  back  to  Lost  Valley  was  pure — loyalty,  shall  I 
say?  Arthur  has  misunderstood  you,  but  you  don't  do 
him  justice.  He  didn't  think  you  were  trying  to  bother 
him." 

"What  did  he  think,  then?" 

"Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you?" 

"I  suppose" — she  spoke  very  slowly,  as  if  thinking  it 
out — "I'd  be  happier,  the  rest  of  my  life,  if  I  understood. 
If  it  wasn't  that,  I  don't  see  what  it  could  be." 

"If  you  wish,  I'll  tell  you." 

Madge  was  silent,  and  Desmond  began  to  speak.  But 
he  chose  his  words  too  tactfully;  her  innocence  made 
nothing  of  ellipsis  and  implication.  She  shook  her  head. 

"I  wish" — Desmond  began  again — "you  would  let  me 
make  an  appointment  for  you  to  see  him.  If  you  would 
just  tell  him  your  story  as  you've  told  it  to  me  .  .  .  about 
the  man  in  Doyers  Street,  and  Jee  Gam's  cellar,  and 
all " 

"He  wouldn't  be  interested.  He  wasn't  interested 
even  when  I  told  him  about  Lola  and  all  I've  been  through 
to  find  her." 

"That  was  because  he  had  seen  you  with  Jee  Gam  .  .  , 
in  Pell  Street .  .  .  and  people  staring." 

"Staring?" 

"My  dear  Miss  Lockerby,  the  fact  is  that  you've  been 
so  dedicated  to  your  duty  that  you've  not  looked  around 
you.  Arthur  saw  you  with  your  Chinese  friends,  at 
292 


LOST  VALLEY 

night,  in  Pell  Street.  .  .  .  Usually  that  would  mean  only 
one  thing.  Arthur  was — shocked.  He  feared  the  worst. 
If  you  could  only  talk  to  him  once  as  you  have  talked 
to  me—" 

But  suddenly,  as  by  revelation,  Madge  had  seen.  She 
bent  forward.  "  Do  you  mean,  Mr.  Reilly,  that  he  thought 
I  was — "  She  could  not  finish. 

"He  didn't  know  what  had  brought  you  there,  you  see." 

"But  I  told  him  about  Lola!" 

"Afterward,  afterward,  my  dear  girl.  He  had  had  his 
impression.  It  hit  him  rather  hard.  I  think  now  he  has 
changed  his  mind.  I  honestly  do.  And  I  should  like  you 
to  make  friends  with  him  again." 

"How  could  I  ever  make  friends  with  anyone  who 
knew  me  and  thought  that  about  me?  I  see  now — you're 
right.  That  was  why  he  kept  harping  on  Jee  Gam  and 
Quong,  and  Pell  Street.  I  couldn't  imagine.  That 
was  why!" 

She  fell  silent,  brooding  over  unuttered  thoughts. 

She  took  it  more  quietly  than  Reilly  had  expected, 
though  he  could  not  miss  the  magnitude  of  a  shock 
that  had  driven  her  from  crimson  to  white  in  a  single 
instant. 

"  I  may  not  have  been  right  to  tell  you,"  he  said  finally, 
still  looking  down  at  her.  "I  have  only  wanted  to  set 
things  straight.  I  am  convinced  that  he's  mightily 
sorry  for  being  such  a  fool.  I  fancy  he'd  give  a  good 
deal  to  put  things  right  with  you." 

In  the  face  of  that  agony,  he  could  only  emphasize 
Arthur's  hypothetical  sorrow,  and  trust  to  time  not  to 
undeceive  them  all. 

"There's  nothing  in  the  heavens  or  the  earth  that  can 
put  things  right  with  me.  It's  over." 

"Ah,  give  him  a  chance!"  Why  did  he  plead  with 
her?  Because,  confusedly,  he  thought  she  wanted  him 

293 


LOST  VALLEY 

to.  Desmond  Reilly  did  not  know,  himself,  precisely 
why  he  had  made  all  this  so  much  his  concern:  he  put 
it  down  to  the  knight-errant  tendency  which  had  done 
more  than  his  common  sense,  his  principles,  his  preju 
dices,  even,  to  mold  his  life.  That  dipping  in  on  the 
hint  of  injustice  was  his  besetting  sin.  He  could  be 
callous  enough  when  he  thought  people  only  had  what 
was  coming  to  them;  could  watch  catastrophes  with  a 
bright,  inhuman  mirth  that  appalled  the  softer  Saxon. 
Yet  no  one  could  go  farther  on  the  way  to  Tir  na  n'Og.  .  .  . 
Madge  Lockerby  found  Jee  Gam  easier  to  understand. 
"Give  him  a  chance!"  he  repeated,  flushing  in  his  turn. 

"A  chance?  For  what?  To  tell  me  that  he  had 
thought  that  kind  of  thing  about  me?  There  are  some 
things,  Mr.  Reilly,  that  an  apology  doesn't  wash  out." 

"I  repeat  that  I  think  you  are  too  hard  on  him.  He 
hadn't  seen  you  in  all  that  time.  Then  he  suddenly 
saw  you  in  a  position  that,  ordinarily  speaking,  would 
have  been  compromising.  He  staggered  under  it.  Your 
explanation  came,  in  due  time;  but  there  was  a  vivid 
impression  to  dispel.  You  couldn't  expect  anyone  to 
pull  an  extraordinary  story  like  yours  out  of  his  inner 
consciousness  just  on  the  hint  that  an  explanation  was 
needed." 

"I  don't  think  you  understand  me,  either,"  Madge 
returned  quietly.  "I  don't  blame  Mr.  Burton.  We 
all  have  to  look  at  things — well,  the  way  we  have  to. 
Probably,  in  his  place,  I'd  have  done  the  same.  Oh,  I'm 
fair  to  him!  .  .  .  But,  you  see,  Mr.  Reilly,  there's  no 
reason,  anyway,  why  I  should  ever  have  anything  more 
to  do  with  him.  Even  if  it  wasn't  for  this,  I'd  probably 
never  see  him  again.  If  I  had  to  see  him,  I'd  do  it  with 
out  hard  feelings.  But  I  don't." 

"You  don't  want  to  see  him  any  more,  then?" 

"Why,  no!  The  way  I  look  at  it"— she  found  things 
294 


LOST  VALLEY 

hard  to  express,  but  kept  on  resolutely — "the  only 
people  you'd  be  likely  to  seek  out  are  the  people  who 
belong  to  you — the  people  who  are  just  naturally  your 
friends.  Nobody  who  misjudged  me  like  that  is  likely 
to  be  a  friend  of  mine.  He  just  hasn't  got  anything  to 
do  with  me,  any  more  than  the  woman  on  the  floor  below, 
or  the  man  who  runs  the  factory  where  I  work.  The 
thing  that  makes  it  hard  for  me  is  that  he  used  to  be 
kind.  He  was  kinder  than  anybody  I'd  ever  known. 
Back  there  at  home,  I  liked  to  think  there  were  folks 
like  that  in  the  world,  even  if  I  didn't  run  across  them 
very  often.  It  was  something  to  go  on  with,  when 
Uncle  didn't  understand,  and  Granny  got  bad.  But 
I've  paid  for  it  enough.  ...  I  guess  it's  a  good  thing 
he  behaved  like  this.  It  '11  keep  me,  perhaps,  from 
paying  any  more." 

"I  see,"  he  answered  her  conventionally.  Then  he 
lifted  his  bright  head  and  declared  himself.  "I  don't 
care,  you  know,  what  has  been  between  you — " 

"Nothing.  Just  nothing.  Only  thoughts,"  she 
interrupted  strangely. 

"But  I  am  curiously  determined  that  everything  shall 
be  straight.  I  want  you  to  do  each  other  justice — for 
the  eternal  sake  of  justice.  I  hate  foolish  misunder 
standings.  Arthur's  a  fool,  and  I've  told  him  so  in  good 
set  terms.  Now  I  wish  you'd  stop  standing  on  your 
dignity." 

Madge  smiled  in  spite  of  her  despair.  "What  else, 
in  Heaven's  name,  have  I  got  to  stand  on,  Mr.  Reilly? 
Don't  you  trouble.  I'm  not  a  bit  angry  with  him.  Of 
course  I'd  rather  he  didn't  misjudge  us,  but  it  doesn't 
much  matter,  after  all.  Don't  you  trouble,"  she  repeated. 
"You've  done  enough." 

"Too  much,  I'm  afraid."     He  was  rueful. 

"No,  no."  She  rose  and  put  her  hand  comfortingly 
20  295 


LOST  VALLEY 

on  his  arm.  "I'm  grateful.  I've  got  to  face  some  hard 
things,  perhaps,  and  I'll  do  it  much  better  for  having 
him  out  of  the  way.  I  mean,  for  not  thinking  we  could 
have  been  friends  and  worrying  as  to  why  we  aren't. 
I  made  a  mistake  back  there,  and  I'm  glad  to  know  it. 
I'm  sorry,  too,  of  course.  But  it's  always  better  to 
deal  with  things  the  way  they  really  are.  It  saves  pain 
in  the  long  run." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  There's  nothing  lovelier  than  a 
dream.  .  .  .  But  won't  you  call  me  your  friend?  Since  I 
had  faith  from  the  first?" 

"That  was  good  of  you.  It  helps,  to  know  you 
trusted  me  when  you  didn't  know  me.  It's  the  cup  of 
cold  water  the  Bible  tells  us  about.  But — you've  done 
everything  you  can.  You're  his  friend,  not  mine." 

"I  told  you  that  as  between  you,  in  this  matter,  I  was 
yours." 

"Do  you  think  I'd  take  away  one  friend  from  Mr. 
Burton?  Well,  I  wouldn't.  Not  to  save  my  life!  You  go 
back  to  him,  Mr.  Reilly.  He's  worth  your  friendship — 
far  more  than  I  am.  And  even  if  he  wasn't,  I'd  never 
come  between  you." 

Desmond  Reilly  took  the  hand  that  still  lay,  admon- 
ishingly,  upon  his  arm,  and  kissed  it. 

"We'll  see,"  he  said.  "And  whether  you  want  it  or 
not,  I'm  going  to  give  you  my  address  and  telephone 
number.  If  there  are  any  ructions,  just  remember  that 
I'm  an  Irishman,  and  ructions  are  the  breath  of  life  to  me. 
I  hope  for  your  sake  there  won't  be  any,  but  there's  noth 
ing  I  love  like  a  shindy  when  I  know  which  side  I'm  on. 
Will  you  at  least  promise  to  send  for  me  if  you  need  any 
one?  I  realize  that  you'd  prefer  Jee  Gam,  but  I  assure  you 
I'd  be  more  use." 

"Thank  you.    I'll  keep  the  address." 

"You  won't  promise?" 
296 


LOST  VALLEY 

"I've  learned  never  to  make  promises.  I'd  ask  you 
if  there  was  anything  you  could  do  that  I  couldn't." 

"You've  no  grudge  against  me?" 

"Not  if  you'll  promise  not  to  blame  Mr.  Burton  for 
anything." 

"I've  learned  never  to  make  promises." 

"Oh,  but  this  is  different." 

"So  I  see."  His  tone  changed.  "Just  you  trust  me, 
Miss  Lockerby.  I'm  very  fond  of  Arthur.  Good  night." 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

PIETRO  GIARDINI  had  not  had  a  happy  winter. 
The  money  that  had  been  stolen  from  his  armchair 
in  the  kitchen  became  a  fixed  idea.  He  dreamed  of  it; 
and  in  his  dreams  the  armchair  was  as  the  Bank  of  Eng 
land — a  treasure  house  inordinately  rich,  theoretically 
impregnable,  which  a  devil  in  human  guise  had  contrived 
to  loot.  The  actually  larger  sum  of  money  that  lived 
under  his  mattress  was  as  nothing  to  him.  Toward  spring, 
he  talked  as  if  he  had  once  been  a  millionaire  and  Giu 
seppe  had  been  his  ruin.  His  obsession  might  have  duped 
Maria,  but  that  Carlo  knew,  and  proved  to  her,  that  the 
sum  could  not  have  been  so  large.  The  common  hatred 
of  Giuseppe  pulled  the  family  together  for  a  little,  but 
after  a  few  months  Maria  broke  out  again.  The  poorer 
Zio  Pietro  was,  the  less  desirable,  all  round.  Of  what  use 
to  pity  him,  when  he  battened  on  your  pity  and  demanded 
all  the  luxuries  for  consolation?  After  a  certain  length  of 
time,  Giuseppe's  wickedness  failed  to  enhance  Pietro's 
virtues. 

Even  Maria  Giardini  did  not  know  how  near  to  madness 
Pietro  was  sailing.  Anger  was  the  familiar  spirit  of  the 
household,  but  of  the  complications  of  mania  she  had 
no  knowledge.  Psychiatry  was  a  sealed  book  to  the  Sig- 
nora  Giardini.  She  knew  only  that  Zio  Pietro  muttered 
to  himself  more,  and  that  when  he  talked  with  the  family, 
his  conversation  totally  lacked  the  charm  of  variety.  One 
day  in  April,  she  burst  out  at  him  over  a  greasy  fritto 
misto  of  which,  reaching  brutally,  he  had  seized  more 
than  his  share. 
298 


LOST  VALLEY 

"That  money!  I  begin  to  wonder  whether  Giuseppe 
Fasanella's  soul  will  burn  in  hell  for  it.  Perhaps,  if  truth 
were  known,  the  sum  was  not  so  large — no  more  than 
what  your  food  has  cost  us  through  the  winter.  Theft  is 
a  sin,  no  doubt;  but  the  Church  has  no  good  thing  to  say 
about  misers — or  gluttons." 

Pietro  rolled  his  eyes  at  his  niece-in-law,  endeavoring 
to  look  terrible.  He  had  nursed  his  grievance  until — it 
seemed  to  him — it  cried  lustily  to  heaven.  For  vengeance, 
of  course.  But  he  did  not  mention  vengeance  except  in 
rhetorical  fashion.  Pietro,  too,  could  keep  a  secret:  his 
obsession  helped  him  to  cunning.  He  snapped  at  Maria 
just  enough  to  keep  things  going,  to  avert  suspicion. 
She  thought  he  had  been  idle,  all  the  long  months.  .  .  . 
Well,  he  had  not  been.  He  could  bestir  himself  hi  the 
interest  of  his  idea.  He  had  gathered  news — no  matter 
how.  If  Pietro  Giardini  had  known  the  saying  con 
cerning  the  mills  of  God,  he  would  have  made  it  his 
motto. 

There  is  no  telling  now  far  Zio  Pietro  was  sane  or  how 
far  mad.  To  throw  dust  in  their  eyes  while  planning  his 
evasion  was  sane  enough,  perhaps;  to  polish  a  stiletto 
nightly  in  the  darkness  while  others  slept,  reeked  of  in 
sanity.  The  best  stiletto  can  be  no  more  than  sharp. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  his  delusions  brought  in  their 
train  (as  so  often  they  do)  treasures  of  common  sense. 
His  forethought  in  all  matters  of  detail  was  amazing. 
By  the  time  he  had  confirmation,  from  New  York,  of  his 
earlier  news,  he  was  ready,  ticket,  stiletto,  and  all.  He 
did  not  make  his  getaway  at  night,  like  Giuseppe.  He 
walked  out  to  take  the  air  on  a  fine  spring  morning,  and 
did  not  return. 

Behold  Pietro  Giardini,  then,  in  New  York  and  rested 
from  his  journey,  the  treacherous  asthma  lying  quiet. 
In  his  unspeakable  lodging  house  he  had  thought  the  worst 

299 


LOST  VALLEY 

attack  of  all  time  was  upon  him,  that  he  should  die,  alone 
and  balked.  But  it  had  passed  ...  it  had  passed.  The 
power  that  long  ago  in  Lost  Valley  had  taken  a  hand  in 
Lockerby  affairs  was  now  ready:  trust  it  to  deal  with  a 
little  thing  like  asthma.  The  wheezing  old  man  excited 
pity;  neighbors  turned  out  to  guide  him  to  his  long-lost 
friend,  whom  he  wished  only  to  behold,  once,  before 
death.  Much  regret  was  expressed,  upon  the  staircase, 
that  the  owner  of  the  monkey  was  out.  Kind  folk  volun 
teered  to  send  children  in  search  of  him,  but  Pietro  shook 
his  gray  head  with  a  divine  patience.  Let  them  say  noth 
ing.  He  would  wait,  and  surprise  his  friend.  He  would 
sit  at  last,  in  the  haven  of  his  hopes,  and  bless  God, 
caressing  the  monkey  who  had  been  to  him  a  beloved  pet, 
almost  like  a  child.  The  monkey  would  surely  remember 
him,  and  they  would  rejoice  together.  The  neighbors 
crowded  to  watch  him  mount.  Did  he  know  the  girl  who 
lived  with  the  pair?  Ah,  did  he  not!  the  poor  innocent! 
A  saint  for  devotion.  Was  she  still  living,  then?  God 
was  good.  They  would  be  very  happy,  waiting  for  Giu 
seppe.  And  he  let  it  be  inferred  that  feasting  would  fol 
low — on  a  scale  that  meant  tidbits  for  everybody. 

No,  only  madness  could  have  made  Pietro  Giardini  so 
clever.  His  satisfaction  alone  was  not  feigned.  The 
whole  tenement  house  blessed  him  as  he  hoisted  himself 
slowly  from  stair  to  stair. 

Lola  was  moving  about  between  sink  and  shelf  in  the 
closet  that  served  for  kitchen.  Giuseppe  had  found  the 
gay  clothes  for  her,  and  a  bright  silk  handkerchief  was 
bound  about  her  head.  A  long  braid  of  yellow  hair  fell 
forward  over  each  shoulder.  Her  dress  was  a  confection 
of  full  blue  skirts,  cheap  cotton  velvet  and  cheaper  em 
broidery.  Giuseppe  was  preparing  to  take  the  road — 
with  a  street  piano,  this  time.  Only  the  long  negotiations 
incidental  to  a  purchase  where  very  little  cash  is  visible, 
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LOST  VALLEY 

and  credit  becomes  a  purely  emotional  matter,  had  kept 
him  in  New  York  as  late  as  this.  Pietro  had  not  been  a 
day  too  soon.  He  did  not  know  that,  but  he  cuddled  his 
sense  of  fruition. 

The  old  man  listened  at  the  door — which  was  unlocked, 
since  Lola  was  within,  on  guard.  There  were  vague 
rustlings  inside,  but  no  voices.  He  felt  of  his  knife  in  its 
sure  retreat,  practiced,  once  or  twice,  a  quick  reach  for 
it.  Then  he  opened  the  door  softly  and  entered. 

Lola  did  not  hear  the  door  open  and  close  again,  but 
Taddeo's  upspringing  chatter,  and  the  creak  of  a  wooden 
chair  under  Pietro 's  weight,  drew  her  into  the  dirty, 
crowded  room  in  which  the  three  slept  and  ate  and  lived. 
She  expected  Giuseppe,  and  stood  shocked  and  uncer 
tain  at  beholding  a  different  face  and  form.  Pietro  looked 
at  her  and  smiled  unbeautifully.  He  did  not  know  what 
line  he  should  take  with  Giuseppe's  girl:  he  remembered 
it  was  of  little  use  to  talk  to  her.  His  main  idea  was  to 
have  no  wrangling  until  the  proper  moment — no  wrangling 
at  all,  ever,  if  he  could,  in  spite  of  size  and  short  breath, 
be  quick  enough.  Certainly  he  would  placate  the  girl 
first,  since  she  was  there.  He  wanted  no  scene,  no  run 
ning  to  and  fro.  It  was  his  idea  that  they  should  all  wait 
very  quietly  for  Giuseppe. 

Lola's  own  fear  of  Pietro  had  faded  with  the  months. 
She  placed  him,  in  a  shadowy  fashion,  but  at  first  realized 
only  that  he  was  not  a  stranger.  He  was  less  familiar 
than  the  acquaintance  she  had  made  more  recently  in 
the  squalid  quarter,  but  he  was  not  unknown.  Slowly, 
indeed,  her  faculty  of  association  began  to  work:  her 
forehead  wrinkled  as  old  connotations  trooped  back.  They 
were  not  clear-cut:  a  kind  of  smudge  of  memory,  rather. 
But  these  processes  were  very  gradual;  her  nerves  found 
their  old  reactions  with  the  utmost  slowness.  She  sat 
watching,  her  brows  contracted,  her  mouth  open,  as  she 

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LOST  VALLEY 

tried  to  recapture,  not  a  vision,  not  a  record,  a  thick 
sense  rather,  of  a  once-experienced  atmosphere. 

Pietro,  meanwhile,  had  reached  for  Taddeo ;  and  Taddeo, 
quicker  in  some  ways  than  Lola,  let  Pietro  hold  him  as 
he  had  often  held  him  before.  Psychology  was  no  part 
of  the  monkey's  outfit,  and  Pietro  had  never  been  unkind 
to  him.  With  whatever  faculties  he  had,  Taddeo  recog 
nized  a  familiar  contact.  He  perched  on  Pietro's  knee 
and  chattered  at  Lola. 

With  the  monkey  in  his  arms,  Pietro  remembered  other 
things.  The  theft  had  superseded  earlier  grievances,  but 
now  his  sense  of  wrong  expanded.  He  still  owned  part 
of  this  monkey!  The  money  in  the  armchair  was  not  the 
whole  of  it,  as  he  had  charitably  been  considering.  He 
did  not  remember,  himself,  that  at  intervals  through  the 
winter  he  had  cursed  Giuseppe  for  stealing  his  part  of 
Taddeo.  It  seemed  to  him,  now,  that  he  had  forgotten  cer 
tain  elements  in  Giuseppe's  turpitude:  the  unbought  frac 
tion  of  the  monkey  came  to  him  like  a  new-old  grievance; 
and,  to  his  distraught  mind,  piled  an  unbelievable  weight 
of  guilt  on  Giuseppe's  shoulders.  His  whilom  partner 
was  not  only  the  last  of  men;  he  was  a  criminal  such  as 
the  world  has  never  seen.  Pietro's  mouth  watered  for  the 
sight  of  him;  his  fingers  itched  to  be  about  their  business. 
He  clutched  Taddeo  like  a  treasure,  and  the  monkey,  dis 
liking  the  clutch,  leaped  to  the  table,  and  into  Lola's 
ready  lap.  Lola's  arms  closed  mechanically  round  the 
little  body.  Of  all  sure  things  in  her  clouded  life,  Taddeo 
was  the  surest.  He  never  changed,  or  failed  her:  he  was 
the  bright  center  of  shadows. 

Pietro  asked  with  unction  if  Giuseppe  were  well  and 
happy.  He  complimented  Lola  upon  her  clothes.  The 
girl,  more  used  now  to  Italian  than  to  English,  replied 
uneasily.  Her  mind  was  still  tracking  this  man  and  all 
he  stood  for.  She  was  increasingly  uncomfortable.  She 
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LOST  VALLEY 

did  not  trust  Pietro,  but  she  had  no  formula  with  which 
to  denounce  him  to  herself.  She  only  knew  better,  moment 
by  moment,  that  his  face  and  form  had  always  been  con 
nected  with  anger  and  reproach;  and  that  she  had  been 
happier  since  they  left  the  place  where  he  belonged.  She 
did  not  want  to  go  back  to  the  house  that  she  was  begin 
ning  to  remember. 

It  was  not  so  long,  as  time  is  counted,  that  they  waited 
for  the  master  of  the  house.  Lola's  face,  which  Pietro 
was  studying  for  purposes  of  his  own,  showed  that  she 
recognized  the  footsteps  that  rang  on  the  stairs  and  in 
the  corridor  outside.  Her  brows  smoothed;  this  visit 
was  to  be  taken  out  of  her  helpless  hands.  She  could 
get  back  to  her  pottering  in  the  closet  beyond.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  little  cooking  was  done  in  the  room,  but 
she  had  learned  to  perform  a  few  simple  tasks,  and  was 
proud  of  the  motions  she  had  rehearsed  into  deftness. 
And  soon  they  were  to  go  back  into  the  country.  Lola 
remembered  the  country. 

Pietro  noticed  her  relief.  He  had  succeeded,  then, 
in  quieting  any  suspicion  the  girl  might  have  had.  He 
put  his  finger  on  his  lip  and  nodded,  lest  she  should  speak 
to  Giuseppe  before  he  came  in.  Lola  rose,  and  let  Taddeo 
slide  to  a  ragged  and  filthy  cushion  that  smelled  abom 
inably  of  monkey.  At  the  very  instant  when  Giuseppe 
thrust  the  door  open  with  a  careless  push,  her  skirts 
flickered  across  the  threshold  of  the  sink-and-stove  place. 

Giuseppe  had  driven  his  bargain.  It  was  not  a  new 
street  piano,  but  it  was  a  street  piano.  The  old  organ 
had  been  traded  in  on  the  exchange,  and  Giuseppe  con 
sidered  himself  lucky  to  be  allowed  anything  for  it. 
From  the  heights  where  he  now  dwelt  in  arrogance,  he 
looked  down  almost  with  pity  on  the  poor  fool  who 
would  some  day  buy  it.  Nothing  is  so  mellowing  to  a 
certain  temper  as  the  vision  of  an  inferior.  Giuseppe 

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LOST  VALLEY 

was  almost  happy.  He  had  taught  Taddeo  some  new 
tricks,  and  Lola's  clothes  became  her.  He  saw  all  the 
stages  of  success  ahead  of  him:  the  possession  of  a  street 
piano;  the  summer  flow  of  coin  which  would  mean  owner 
ship  of  the  instrument;  money  put  by;  the  street  piano 
sold;  Lola  disposed  of  into  some  charitable  abyss;  a 
shop  leased  and  stocked,  eventually  owned;  marriage, 
perhaps,  with  a  dowry  falling  in;  himself  a  respected 
and  powerful  citizen  with  a  say  in  local  politics;  false 
teeth  and  good  clothes,  a  shaven  chin — all  this  before 
he  was  fifty.  It  did  not  take  him  twenty  seconds  to 
visualize  that  progress.  The  false  teeth  came  like  an 
inspiration  as  he  put  his  hand  on  the  door  knob.  The 
very  gods  smiled  in  the  whiteness  of  those  porcelain 
molars.  He  entered  the  room,  showing  his  own  yellow 
fangs  in  a  smile  of  optimism — and  faced  Pietro  Giardini, 
who  had  hah*  risen  from  his  chair.  Pietro  squared  him 
self  for  struggle  while  the  smile  faded. 

With  the  vision  of  Giuseppe,  insolent,  in  the  flesh, 
before  him,  Pietro's  minatory  phrases,  which  he  had 
thought  over  in  the  train,  forsook  him.  He  had  meant 
to  hiss  out  his  grievance  before  he  struck.  Giuseppe 
was  to  go  down  to  death  knowing  very  clearly  what 
manner  of  man  a  decent  citizen  thought  him.  Pietro 
had  never  conceived  of  that  scene  without  a  few  terrible 
words.  His  defaulting  partner  was  to  have  no  time  to 
look  about  him  or  to  save  himself;  but  he  was  to  have 
time  to  hear,  and  to  be  aware  of  death.  Pietro  had 
never  meant  it  to  come  to  a  fight,  in  which  he  might  well 
be  worsted.  He  was  to  surprise  Giuseppe,  and  stab. 

The  weapon  was  ready  before  the  door  was  well  open; 
and  during  the  few  seconds  Giuseppe  took  to  realize 
Pietro's  presence,  the  older  man  lunged.  Giuseppe 
parried,  but  he  had  the  weight  of  Pietro's  body  upon 
his  shoulder,  and  the  knife  eluded  him.  Pietro  steadied 
304 


LOST  VALLEY 

himself  with  a  hand  on  the  table  and  clutched  the  stiletto 
afresh.  The  younger  man  leaped  back,  crying  out  for 
help,  and  trying  to  put  the  furniture  between  them  till 
he  could  use  his  fists  to  some  purpose.  But  there  was 
little  room;  and  Taddeo,  who  had  leaped  from  his  cushion, 
chattering  and  witless  with  alarm,  ran  in  and  out,  weaving 
a  way  between  their  legs.  The  monkey  nearly  tripped 
Giuseppe,  who  cursed  him  in  a  raucous  scream,  which 
brought  Lola  into  the  room  alight  with  terror. 

The  speed  of  the  scene  was  mechanical,  for  all  its 
violence.  Taddeo  swarmed  up  Giuseppe's  right  leg, 
and  the  Italian,  snatching  him,  started  to  fling  him,  like 
a  blinding  missile,  straight  into  Pietro's  face.  The 
slow  swing  of  Pietro's  heavy  arm,  meant  to  drive  the 
stiletto  home,  wavered  a  little  before  Giuseppe's  ges 
ture,  and  Lola,  sobbing,  had  just  time  to  bound  between 
them  and  grasp  the  monkey.  She  and  Taddeo  took  the 
thrust  together,  for  her  rush  had  swayed  Giuseppe  to 
one  side,  and  Pietro's  momentum  was  too  great  to  stop 
for  a  change  of  target.  His  whole  weight  was  behind  the 
blow,  and  he  lurched  forward  where  he  stabbed.  Then 
his  arm  doubled  at  the  elbow,  and  the  hilt  of  the  stiletto, 
still  clutched  in  his  fingers,  bored  into  his  own  chest  as 
he  fell  prone  upon  his  handiwork.  Two  hundred  pounds 
of  flesh  behind  that  hilt  rammed  the  knife  home. 
Giuseppe,  knocked  down  by  the  impact  of  the  group, 
sought  the  knife  in  vain  as  he  struggled  to  rise.  Its 
whole  sharp  length  was  hidden  in  Lola's  body.  ...  It 
had  pinned  Taddeo 's  tail  in  transit,  and  the  monkey 
was  squalling  pitifully,  wedged  between  his  protectress 
and  Pietro.  Giuseppe's  feet  slipped  about  in  oozing 
blood,  but  he  managed  to  get  upright,  and  cursed  Pietro 
as  Pietro  had  dreamed  of  cursing  him.  He  tried  to  pull 
the  weight  of  the  man  off  his  victim,  but  Pietro,  gasping 
horribly,  could  not  help  to  right  himself.  Lola's  moans 

305 


LOST  VALLEY 

terrified  him,  and  when  he  saw  Giuseppe  standing  above 
him  unhurt,  he  gave  himself  up  for  a  failure.  He  closed 
his  eyes,  the  better  to  bear  the  hideous  drumming  in 
his  temples,  the  suffocation  in  his  throat.  Then  he 
swerved  gently  sideways,  with  a  queer  pursing  of  the  lips. 

There  was  noise  below,  now:  scurrying  and  hesitation 
upon  the  stairs — women  and  children  mostly,  and  none 
of  them  cared  to  investigate  until  the  police  came.  The 
police  were  always  near,  Giuseppe  reflected.  He  bent 
lower  over  Pietro  and  loosed  the  thick  fingers  from  the 
knife.  They  were  oddly  rigid;  and  Pietro's  body  lay  back 
in  his  arms  like  a  block  of  wood.  Would  he  never  be  rid 
of  this  creature?  At  last  he  straightened  out  the  inert 
trunk  and  conveyed  it,  face  upward,  to  the  floor.  A  queer 
gurgle  of  breath  stirred  the  purplish  features.  A  stroke, 
most  likely;  but  he  was  not  dead  yet.  The  sounds  were 
coming  nearer  outside;  he  could  almost  hear  his  neighbors 
marshaling  themselves  to  escort  the  police.  A  terrible 
rage  filled  him  at  the  shattering  of  his  dream — for  though 
Giuseppe  dreamed  grossly,  he  had  dreamed.  Hardly 
knowing  what  he  did,  he  pulled  the  stiletto  from  Lola's 
side.  It  came  slowly,  with  a  horrid  sucking  noise,  and  the 
stains  on  her  bodice  grew  deeper  in  color,  as  if  a  dye  were 
working  in.  Taddeo,  released — the  knife  had  but  pierced 
the  tail  near  the  tip — crawled  whimpering  across  to  his 
cushion.  Giuseppe's  eyes  saw  the  queer  little  specks  and 
blobs  that  followed  him,  like  the  Morse  code  laid  along 
the  floor  in  blood;  but  his  mind  was  elsewhere.  With 
two  quick  motions,  forward  and  back,  he  wiped  the  sti 
letto  clean  on  his  trousers  and  then  in  an  ecstasy  struck  at 
Pietro's  throat.  This  pig  had  tried  to  kill  him.  Well, 
two  could  play  at  that  game.  Then  he  crept  over  and 
dropped  the  knife  out  of  the  open  window,  where  it  fell, 
neatly  as  by  conjury,  into  a  chimney. 

Lola  still  moaned  and  stirred,  but  her  eyes  were  fixed 
306 


LOST  VALLEY 

glassily  on  some  point  in  space.  It  was  impossible  to  say 
how  far  she  was  conscious  of  the  scene.  To  do  Giuseppe 
justice,  he  did  not  dare  touch  her,  for  fear  of  her  dying 
under  his  hands.  Also,  the  red  confusion  of  his  mind  was 
beginning  to  shape  itself  into  something  intelligible. 
Would  it  not  be  possible,  for  example,  that  Lola  had 
stabbed  Pietro  in  the  throat  and  had  promptly  been 
finished  off,  herself?  He,  of  course,  had  disarmed  the  two 
of  their  fatal  weapon,  and  flung  it  where  it  could  do  no 
further  harm.  At  least,  if  Lola  died,  she  could  not  deny 
it.  Giuseppe  had  no  knowledge  of  medical  subtleties,  the 
terrible  expertness  of  examining  physicians.  The  motive? 
He  could  invent  a  hundred.  His  eye  fell  on  Taddeo — well 
known  to  be  the  chief  passion  of  Lola's  soul.  He  turned 
his  back  upon  the  girl's  unchanging  stare,  and  reached 
for  the  monkey.  His  ill-shaped  hands,  immensely  strength 
ened  by  terror,  closed  relentlessly  about  the  tiny  throat. 
.  .  .  Motive  enough,  now  the  monkey  was  dead.  .  .  .  Giu 
seppe  flung  himself  face  down  upon  the  floor,  covering 
Taddeo's  body,  and  waited  for  the  police  to  enter.  They 
found  him  there,  a  moment  after,  hysterically  gasping. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

MADGE  LOCKERBY  had  made  no  promises,  and 
Desmond  Reilly  heard  her  passionate  and  vibrant 
voice  over  the  telephone  with  surprise.  He  stiffened  him 
self  to  meet  this  torrent  of  words.  There  was  no  reticence 
now,  no  Lockerby  independence.  She  claimed  his  help, 
his  money,  his  presence,  at  once  and  imperiously.  Had 
this  creature  ever  been  meek?  Desmond  whistled.  There 
had  been  a  shindy,  since  she  telephoned  from  a  hospital 
where  her  sister  lay  dying.  She  had  not  troubled  to  ex 
plain  precisely  what  had  happened,  but  the  owner  of  that 
voice  was  in  good  health. 

He  had  not  in  his  pockets  the  sum  she  seemed  likely 
to  require.  The  banks  had  closed  long  since,  and  it  was  a 
question  where  he  could  raise  it  with  the  least  expenditure 
of  time.  His  mouth  twisted  as  he  thought,  for  a  few  con 
centrated  seconds.  Arthur  Burton,  he  knew,  was  leaving, 
after  some  postponements,  for  Chicago  and  the  Lawrences, 
that  night.  Arthur  was  sure  to  have  cash  upon  his  per 
son.  He  could  think  of  other  people  to  serve  his  turn 
quite  as  conveniently;  but  a  certain  quality  in  Desmond 
Reilly — not,  perhaps,  the  most  lovable — made  him  de 
termine,  with  hot  obstinacy,  to  get  it  from  Arthur.  He 
snatched  his  stick  and  cigarette  case,  and  started  out  at  a 
quick  pace  for  Arthur's  rooms. 

There  was  a  brief  wrangle  in  the  strewn  studio  after 
Reilly  explained.  Arthur  packed  by  the  grace  of  God, 
and  he  was  very  peevish  among  his  shirts  and  collars. 

"Can't  you  go  to  Leeds  or  Masters?  If  I  fork  out  this, 
308 


LOST  VALLEY 

I'll  have  to  tear  round,  myself,  getting  more — or  else  give 
up  my  reservation  and  telegraph  the  Lawrences  and  get 
there  God  knows  when." 

"A  day  late,"  Desmond  replied  smoothly. 

"Yes,  but  there's  a  dinner  to-morrow  night  with  a  lot 
of  people  it's  especially  important  for  me  to  see." 

"Do  you  good  not  to  see  them!  And  anyhow,  you  can 
raise  the  cash  somewhere.  I'm  in  a  hurry." 

"You  could  have  got  it  quicker  than  by  coming  to  me." 

"Oh,  that  has  penetrated,  has  it?  Well,  then,  you  know 
that  I  particularly  want  it  from  you.  So  hand  it  over. 
I'm  in  a  hurry,  I  tell  you." 

"Damn  you,  go  round  the  corner  for  it!  Go  somewhere 
else.  I  have  two  appointments  before  my  train  goes — 
ones  I've  got  to  keep.  I've  no  time  to  hunt  cash.  I  sha'n't 
get  my  train." 

"I  don't  care  if  you  don't.    Hand  it  over." 

"Is  this  a  loan  or  a  gift?"    Arthur  sneered. 

"A  loan,  of  course — you  being  what  you  are." 

Arthur  turned  back  to  the  littered  rows  of  clothing  that 
made  an  isthmus  between  two  bags.  "Ah!  You  won't 
get  it  now,  anyhow.  Tear  along  somewhere  else,  old 
man." 

Desmond  Reilly  laid  his  stick  on  a  table,  took  off  his 
coat,  and  began  to  roll  back  his  shirt  sleeves.  Arthur 
beheld  him  with  amazement. 

"Get  out  of  here,  Desmond.  I  believe  you're  touched. 
What  are  you  up  to?" 

"  If  you  won't  give  it  to  me,  I'm  going  to  take  it.  That's 
all." 

Arthur  sighed.  "I'm  not  going  to  fight  you.  We'd 
mess  the  place  up,  and  hurt  each  other,  and  if  you're  as 
crazy  as  I  think  you  are,  you  might  kill  me,  which  would 
be  very  awkward  for  you.  I  thought  you  were  in  a 
hurry,  too." 

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LOST  VALLEY 

"I  am.    But  if  you  delay  the  game,  it's  not  my  fault." 

"Humph!  On  the  understanding  that  I  am  dealing 
with  a  paranoiac — take  it!" 

Arthur  removed  a  wallet  from  his  hip  pocket  and  flung 
it  at  Reilly.  Desmond  arranged  his  cuffs,  put  his  coat  on, 
removed  the  bills  and  pocketed  them,  and  took  up  his 
stick.  Arthur  had  risen  and  was  facing  him  with  flushed 
cheeks. 

"You've  knocked  my  plans  into  a  cocked  hat.  ...  If  I 
hadn't  been  fond  of  you,  I'd  have  been  only  too  glad  to 
try  to  kill  you,  just  now.  But  I  want  you  to  understand 
one  thing  very  clearly:  I  absolutely  repudiate  any  respon 
sibility  for  these  Lockerbys  that  you  are  trying  to  fasten 
on  me.  I'm  sorry  as  the  devil  for  Madge  Lockerby,  and 
whatever  has  happened.  If  she  came  to  me  for  help,  she'd 
get  it.  But  you'll  notice  she  didn't.  When  she  goes  to 
you,  I'm  damned  if  I'll  consent  to  have  you  shove  her  off 
on  me.  Madge  Lockerby  is  a  perfectly  good  judge  of  my 
responsibility  to  her.  You  are  no  judge  at  all." 

Desmond  turned  suddenly  reasonable.  "No  time  to 
discuss  that  now.  I  happen  to  know  you're  more  re 
sponsible  than  you  think  you  are.  But  if  Madge  Lockerby 
called  me  up,  it  was  probably  because  she  wanted  help 
quickly.  She  didn't  want  to  discuss  the  ethics  of  the  ges 
ture  for  twenty-four  hours,  and  sign  all  sorts  of  quit-claim 
deeds  before  she  got  what  she  wanted." 

"Oh,  of  course  you're  the  only  exponent  of  chivalry 
she's  ever  seen!" 

Desmond  was  at  the  door.  "She  wanted  results,  prob 
ably — not  to  chew  the  rag.  As  far  as  I  can  make  out,  her 
sister  is  dying  in  a  downtown  hospital.  When  people  are 
dying,  you  call  in  a  practical  person — like  me." 

He  slammed  the  door  and  took  the  steps  three  at  a 
time  to  reach  a  taxi  sooner. 

Madge  Lockerby  met  him  just  inside  the  great  door  of 
310 


LOST  VALLEY 

the  hospital.  "I'm  sorry  .  .  .  I'm  sorry  .  .  ."  she  mur 
mured.  It  was  one  thing  to  send  an  anguished  call  into 
space,  another  to  see  a  strong  man  materialize  before  her 
as  a  result  of  those  flung  words. 

"Cut  it  out.  Here's  all  the  money  I  could  bring  with 
me  at  the  moment.  Can  you  tell  me  what  has  happened?  " 

She  could  not  tell  him  then,  for  she  had  to  lay  practical 
burdens  upon  him.  She  had  wanted  a  private  room — not 
that  dreadful  emergency  ward — and  she  had  no  money 
to  pay  for  it;  people  from  police  headquarters  were  want 
ing  to  ask  her  questions,  and  she  wanted  just  to  be  by 
Lola's  side.  If  he  could  see  about  the  room  and  the 
nurses  .  .  .  and  tell  the  police  she  knew  nothing  about  what 
had  happened  that  morning,  but  would  in  time  tell  them 
everything  she  did  know.  .  .  .  She  must  be  with  Lola  every 
minute,  in  case  consciousness  should  return  before  the 
end.  She  didn't  want  to  shirk  anything;  but  she  must 
have  a  little  peace,  a  little  privacy.  After  all  these  months 
.  .  .  she  couldn't  sit  in  the  ward  with  just  a  screen  round 
Lola.  And  she  knew  they  didn't  pay  much  attention  to 
poor  people  out  of  the  slums. 

Desmond  waved  his  hand.  "Leave  it  to  me,"  he  com 
manded.  And  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time 
Lockerbys'  Lola  was  the  unconscious  possessor  of  things 
she  had  never  had  before — a  white,  still  room  of  her  own, 
a  private  nurse,  the  special  attention  of  the  cleverest  sur 
geon  Desmond  Reilly  knew. 

Later  in  the  evening,  while  the  night  nurse  went  in  and 
out,  stepping  softly,  Madge,  refreshed  by  the  quiet  and 
the  sharing  of  intolerable  burdens,  could  tell  him  what 
she  knew.  They  murmured  together  by  Lola's  bedside, 
questions  and  answers  almost  confounding  themselves  to 
the  ear,  for  Madge's  voice  was  as  low  as  Reilly 's  own. 

They  had  started,  she  and  Maddalena,  for  the  neigh 
borhood  where  the  old  woman,  spying  for  many  days, 
21  311 


LOST  VALLEY 

thought  she  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  girl  of  the  por 
trait.  As  they  drew  near  the  block,  they  were  caught  in 
the  buzzing  horror  of  the  neighborhood,  as  in  a  net. 
Madge  had  waited  on  the  outskirts,  while  Maddalena  had 
dived  into  the  pleasurable  clamor,  and  brought  back  a 
hundred  tales.  At  the  door  of  the  hospital,  Maddalena 
had  suddenly  left  her  side,  and  Madge  had  made  her  way 
alone  through  the  snarls  of  red  tape,  the  interminable 
interviews  with  officials,  the  thousands  of  words  that,  it 
seemed,  had  to  be  uttered  before  she  could  attain  the 
final  shock  of  recognition. 

"That's  all  I  know,"  she  murmured  finally.  "If  you 
would  tell  them,  in  the  morning,  that  it's  all  I  know.  ...  I 
can't  leave  Lola  for  a  minute." 

"Yes.  Well,  there  '11  be  an  enormous  pile  of  evidence 
to  sift.  Everyone  in  that  tenement  house  will  have  a 
theory,  and  most  of  them  will  lie.  I'll  go  now;  but  I  shall 
be  somewhere  within  the  hospital,  and  within  call." 

Madge  Lockerby,  who  had  imagined  her  crisis  in  a  hun 
dred  guises,  had  never  imagined  it  like  this.  She  dozed 
in  an  armchair  while  the  nurse  watched,  through  the  latter 
hours  of  that  night.  All  her  thoughts  were  centered  on 
one  passionate  hope:  that  she  and  Lola  might  know  each 
other  and  speak  one  word  of  love,  before  Lola  died. 
She  was  not  one  whit  interested  in  the  circumstances  of 
the  murder  now.  Time  for  that,  later.  Until  Lola's 
buffeted  spirit  finally  passed  from  this  earth,  Madge  had 
no  instinct  even  to  think  of  vengeance.  She  shut  Giu 
seppe  out  of  her  soul:  he  should  not  defile  its  threshold 
while  she  and  her  sister  were  within,  alone,  together. 

Madge  was  not  a  praying  person;  but  before  drowsiness 
overcame  her,  she  gathered  in  all  her  straying  mental 
faculties  and  forced  them  to  be  petitioners.  One  moment 
of  consciousness,  of  recognition,  of  expressed  affection, 
between  her  and  the  child  beside  her — that  was  all  she 


LOST  VALLEY 

asked;  but  her  limbs  and  her  thoughts  were  tense,  for 
that  instant,  with  prayer.  Her  lips  shaped  the  words: 
"O  God,  please,  just  once!"  She  concentrated  her  whole 
being  on  the  wish,  as  if  to  force  it  from  the  hands  of 
Heaven.  It  was  a  desperate  willing  of  the  thing,  a  pas 
sionate  attempt  to  channel  Omnipotence.  Then  she  re 
laxed,  and  drifted  along  the  meandering  ways  of  slumber. 

Dawn  came,  then  a  gray  morning  to  follow.  They 
brought  Madge  coffee,  which  she  drank  avidly  to  clear 
her  head.  Then  she  resumed  her  vigil  close  to  the  bedside. 

It  was  in  an  unheralded  moment  that  Lola  opened  her 
eyes  and  moved  her  head  upon  the  pillow.  The  doctor 
was  due,  and  the  day  nurse,  already  on  duty,  had  slipped 
out  to  speak  to  him  in  the  corridor.  Madge  perceived 
that  awakening  alone.  She  bent  very  close,  not  daring  to 
speak,  wondering  how  to  focus  Lola's  attention  without 
shock.  Lola  did  not  turn  her  face  toward  her  sister. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed,  as  yesterday  they  had  been,  on  some 
point  in  space  ahead  of  her.  As  if  the  mere  exercise  of 
vision  linked  up  inevitably  with  the  last  preceding  mo 
ment  of  such  activity,  taking  up  the  interrupted  tale,  she 
spoke. 

"  Giuseppe  killed  Taddeo.  He  is  bad,  bad."  Seemingly 
she  had  been  on  the  point  of  registering  this  judgment 
before  the  mists  inclosed  her,  and,  her  interrupted  duty 
now  performed,  she  closed  her  eyes.  "Poor  Taddeo!" 
The  voice  trailed  off  in  a  weak  manner.  "Lola  tried  to 
take  him,  but  the  man  had  a  knife  and  hurt  Lola.  Giu 
seppe  was  right — to  kill — the  man — "  (the  voice  was  very 
weak  now)  "but  not  poor  Taddeo." 

Madge  stood  over  Lola's  stiff  form,  slender  for  all  the 
lengths  of  bandage  that  encompassed  it,  and  breathed  her 
passion  out  in  dry,  dreadful  whispers.  "Lola!  Lola!" 

She  was  aware,  at  some  unprotected  edge  of  conscious 
ness,  of  a  cloud  of  people  softly  flitting  in  and  inclosing 

313 


LOST  VALLEY 

them,  but  she  only  bent  lower  over  her  sister's  face,  to 
shut  them  out  and  draw  Lola's  spirit  to  her.  "Lola! 
Lola!"  The  two  faces  were  almost  touching.  The  girl 
opened  her  eyes  again,  and  Madge,  though  she  still  spread 
her  arms  to  fend  off  the  others,  drew  back  until  their 
glances  had  room  to  meet. 

"Lola,  darling!" 

The  glassy  stare  seemed  breathed  upon  by  another 
influence.  Very  slowly  Lola's  eyes  searched  her  sister's, 
trying,  trying.  .  .  .  Then  she  smiled  happily.  "Madge!" 
There  was  a  faint  far  note  of  childish  triumph  in  the  weak 
voice.  Her  effort  had  succeeded.  "Sister  came  for  .  .  ." 
but  the  last  syllables  were  only  a  loose  gurgle,  choked  in 
blood.  Madge's  face  was  dabbled  over  with  crimson  when 
they  pulled  her  gently  away,  and  made  her  understand 
that  after  this  hemorrhage  consciousness  had  gone  and 
never  would  return.  She  did  not  struggle  against  the 
truth.  The  doctors  and  nurses  round  Lola's  bed  were 
dealing  with  something  beyond  all  responses.  Her  own 
prayer  had  been  answered:  she  had  nothing  more,  for  the 
moment,  to  ask. 

Madge  walked  to  the  end  of  the  corridor,  where  a  large 
gaunt  window  gave  upon  the  sky  above  a  seethe  of  roofs. 
The  sun  was  struggling  with  clouds,  and  there  was  a  hint 
of  elemental  contest,  passionless  forces  sublimely  at  work, 
in  the  rifting  and  closing,  the  stolidity  and  the  irradiation 
of  the  cloud  bank.  Madge  watched  very  quietly.  The 
window  was  open;  there  was  nothing  but  free  air  between 
her  and  the  sky.  She  could  not,  even  yet,  think  of  Giu 
seppe.  She  was  wholly  consumed  with  that  peace  which 
accompanies  finality.  It  was  over — over — over.  Lola 
need  never  suffer  any  more.  She,  Madge,  was  a  dis 
burdened  soul.  She  saw  Lola  made  free.  The  girl's 
last  words  had  been  words  of  pity.  She  had  stood  on 
the  right  side,  for  all  her  blindness.  "Lola  was  good  .  .  . 
314 


LOST  VALLEY 

there  was  never  any  harm  in  her,"  Madge  whispered. 
The  sun  prevailed  at  last,  and  the  unresentful,  fleecy 
clouds  arrayed  themselves  to  walk  in  his  triumph.  Madge, 
still  in  her  trance,  smiled  as  one  justified.  Lola  was  not 
here;  she  was  there.  And  it  had  been  given  to  her  to 
know,  before  she  flitted,  that  Madge  had  not  failed  her. 
The  tears  came,  but  they  were  very  gentle  ones.  In  all 
her  life,  perhaps,  Madge  had  never  been  so  happy — for 
there  was  no  fever  in  her  veins,  only  a  calm  that  Jee  Gam 
himself  would  have  approved. 

The  sounds  of  the  hospital  beat  in  upon  her  ear  at  last. 
She  withdrew  her  eyes  from  the  sky  and  turned.  Des 
mond  Reilly,  at  a  discreet  distance,  was  waiting  for  her. 
"It's  all  over,"  he  said  softly. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  knew  before  I  came  out.  Now,  if  they'll 
tell  me  what  to  do,  I'll  do  it." 

"You're  quite  fit?" 

"Oh,  yes,  quite.  She  knew  me  before  she  died.  Just 
think,  Mr.  Reilly,  what  that  means  to  me.  And  I'll 
never  have  to  lie  awake  again  at  night  and  wonder  if 
Lola  is  hungry,  or  cold,  or  in  pain.  Never  again!  Why, 
it's  like  going  to  heaven,  myself,  to  know  that  Lola's 
there,  all  safe."  She  smiled  at  him,  unafraid  of  anything 
that  might  supervene. 

"They  want  to  ask  you  some  questions." 

"  Why,  of  course,  I'll  tell  them  anything  I  can.  They've 
all  been  very  kind." 

She  led  the  way  herself  down  the  corridor.  The  reac 
tion  might  come,  to-morrow  or  after  many  days,  but 
just  now  she  was  as  strong  as  she  had  felt  herself,  that 
early  day  in  Siloam. 

On  the  evening  of  the  next  day,  Madge  sat  with  Reilly 
at  dinner  in  a  small  and  quiet  restaurant.  He  had  not 
prevailed  on  her  without  difficulty.  Restaurants,  to 

315 


LOST  VALLEY 

her,  connoted  a  scheme  of  life  quite  apart  from  her  sad 
and  homely  habit.  But  she  felt  within  her  a  certain 
imminence  of  change,  threatening  that  high  content 
which  of  course  she  could  not  alwrays  keep.  She  dreaded 
waiting  alone  in  her  room  for  the  break  to  come.  Very 
humanly  she  clutched  at  the  chance  of  postponing  it. 

Reilly  had  looked  to  see  her  in  black;  and  when  she 
entered  the  door  in  her  same  blue  serge,  her  same  hat 
with  the  curving  wing,  he  wondered  uncomfortably  if 
this  was  another  detail  of  her  purgatory.  Ought  he  to 
have  offered  to  lend  her  money  to  buy  mourning?  How 
could  he  have  done  it?  His  sympathetic  imagination 
had  in  this  case  outrun  the  need.  Even  if  Madge  Lock- 
erby  had  had  money  in  her  pocket,  it  would  never  have 
occurred  to  her  to  spend  it  for  crape.  Lost  Valley  does 
not  usually  wear  mourning  for  its  dead.  It  took  Des 
mond  several  minutes  to  recover  from  his  discomfort. 
Finally  he  put  it  to  himself  that  there  was  no  way  in 
which  he  could  have  helped  her  in  this  matter,  and 
eventually  discovered  that,  however  her  mood  was 
compounded,  this  particular  regret  was  no  element 
thereof. 

Much  water  had  flowed  under  the  bridge  in  thirty-six 
hours,  and  Desmond  had  not  seen  Madge  since  the  pre 
vious  noon.  Each  had  news  for  the  other,  yet  each 
hesitated  to  bring  back,  into  so  normal  and  impersonal 
a  scene,  the  atmosphere  of  that  detail — not  from  cowardice, 
but  because  now  there  was  nothing  further  to  be  done. 
Madge  was  trying  to  subject  herself  to  the  hypnotizing 
power  of  the  unfamiliar  place;  and  Reilly  was  urging 
on,  by  every  means  he  knew,  that  hypnosis. 

The  food  was  good,  and  Reilly  permitted  himself  to 
appreciate  it,  in  the  hope  that  she,  too,  would  find  the 
occasion  festal.  But  Madge  hardly  noticed  what  she 
ate,  and  bread  and  olives  and  long  draughts  of  water 
316 


LOST  VALLEY 

seemed  to  be  all  she  asked  for  her  entertainment.  Lola 
was  dead;  Lola  was  buried;  the  wandering  life  was 
over,  and  she  must  set  her  face  to  the  north  again.  Her 
mind  was  subtly  re-orienting  itself  to  the  Dipper  and 
Polaris,  the  familiar  heaven  above  Barker's  Hill. 
She  had  tried  not  to  think  of  all  that;  but  time  was 
inexorable.  The  net  she  had  riven  and  spurned  was 
drawing  about  her  feet  again.  Madge  had  not  been 
happy,  the  last  year,  but  she  was  now  savoring  to  the 
full  the  ominous  word  "home."  She  sighed  over  an 
unintelligible  salad. 

Reilly  heard  the  sigh  and  determined  to  see  her  well 
out  of  this  thing.  Let  them  finish  up  the  interlude! 
It  was  only  to  the  interlude  that  he  belonged:  then  he 
could  wish  her  Godspeed  for  what  came  after. 

"I  wonder  if  you'll  mind  my  speaking  very  plainly?'^ 
he  asked. 

A  fauit  hint  of  fear  passed  over  Madge's  face;  for 
these  are  always  terrible  words. 

"Yes?     Is — is  there  anything  else?" 

"Nothing  that  you  won't  really  like  to  hear,"  he  threw 
in  hastily.  "But  it  was  put  to  me  very  crudely,  and  I 
shall  have  to  pass  it  on  crudely.  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  old 
Maddalena  yesterday.  She  hasn't  been  idle  in  your  be 
half.  With  what  I  could  understand,  and  what  some  of 
the  others  down  there  interpreted,  I  got  a  pretty  clear 
notion  of  the  conditions  under  which  your  sister  was  liv 
ing  in  New  York." 

"Oh!  Was— was  he  good  to  her?  But  it's  over  now!" 
Madge  clenched  her  hands  and  swallowed  hard.  "Even 
if  he  wasn't  kind  to  her,  she's  past  it  all." 

"He  seems  to  have  been  kind  enough.  There  was 
plenty  of  food,  and  he  kept  her  in  decent  clothes.  There 
never  was  any  quarreling,  as  far  as  the  neighbors  know. 
People  in  the  house  all  had  good  words  for  her — and  for 

317 


LOST  VALLEY 

Giuseppe's  treatment  of  her.  Of  course  they're  all  on 
edge  down  there  to  know  what  happened  at  the  last. 
They  wish  they  had  cut  their  hands  off  before  they 
pointed  that  villain  up  the  stairs.  You  can  imagine  the 
sort  of  thing." 

"They'll  find  it  in  their  Italian  papers,  I  suppose. 
Then  maybe  they  won't  like  Giuseppe  so  much." 

"You  are  convinced^  that  he  was  the  aggressor?" 

"Aggressor?  You  mean  that  he  was  the  person  who 
killed  Lola?  Oh,  no!  Pietro  Giardini  killed  Lola.  But 
Giuseppe  killed  Pietro.  And  then  he  killed  Taddeo." 

These  had  been  matters  of  mystery,  hot  suspicion,  and 
tangled  clews  at  the  time  Desmond  had  left  the  hospital 
and  plunged  into  his  private  investigations.  His  eyes 
glittered,  and  his  jaw  dropped,  ever  so  little,  with  surprise. 
The  girl  spoke  as  if  she  had  been  there.  Was  she  a  little 
crazy? 

"You're  very  sure  of  all  that?"  he  managed  to  say, 
with  a  little  point  of  irony  in  the  speech. 

"Why,  Lola  spoke  before  she  died,  you  see — spoke  to 
me.  And  then  Giuseppe  confessed." 

"Well:  I'm  glad,"  Desmond  said  at  last  after  a  long 
silence.  "I  congratulate  you." 

Madge  had  refused  coffee,  and  she  was  only  waiting 
for  him  to  finish — for  this  to  be  over.  Her  respite  would 
then  be  over,  too.  She  must  go  back  to  the  menacing 
walls  of  her  room.  But  she  remembered  he  had  something 
"plain"  to  say  to  her.  Well:  let  her  get  that  over,  too. 
She  looked  up  at  him. 

"What  was  it  you  thought  I  ought  to  hear?  I'm — I'm 
pretty  near  the  end  of  my  strength.  I  guess  I'd  better 
hear  it  while  I've  got  a  little  left." 

"It's  nothing,  really "     Reilly  hesitated. 

"  But  it  is !    You  wouldn't  have  spoken,  if  there  hadn't 
been  something."    Her  foot  tapped  the  floor  nervously. 
318 


LOST  VALLEY 

"There's  no  sense  in  trying  to  calm  a  fear  that  doesn't 
exist." 

"What  do  you  mean?  Is  there  anything  I've  forgotten 
to  be  afraid  of?  I  didn't  know  there  was  anything  I 
hadn't  thought  of." 

Reilly  was  silent. 

Madge  leaned  forward  across  the  table,  and  spoke 
eagerly,  but  low.  "Mr.  Reilly,  if  you  had  any  idea  of 
the  life  I'm  going  back  to,  you'd  speak,  in  mercy.  I  shall 
have  nothing  to  do,  all  the  rest  of  my  days,  but  think 
over  everything  that's  happened.  If  anything  came  back 
to  me  there — anything  I  hadn't  realized  before — I'd  go 
mad.  People  do,  in  Lost  Valley,"  she  added  grimly. 

Desmond's  shrunken  pity  expanded  again  within  him. 
It  filled  his  whole  being,  elbowing  out  the  pettier  emo 
tions  of  contempt,  pique,  and  the  like.  The  girl's  future: 
he  hadn't  sufficiently  realized  that.  Her  face,  too:  the 
pride  was  a  mere  matter  of  the  way  her  head  was  set  on 
her  shoulders,  the  natural  curves  of  lip  and  nostril,  the 
height  of  the  brow.  Mere  sculpture  work,  with  which 
she  had  nothing  to  do.  It  was  a  splendid  vessel;  but  it 
was  brimmed  with  suffering.  His  heart  was  contrite. 

"I  never  knew  Lola,"  he  began.  "So  you  must  forgive 
me.  But  about  such  a  helpless  child,  I  should  have  wor 
ried — over  many  things." 

"Yes?"  Her  eyes  seemed  fastened  to  his  own.  He 
had  an  uneasy  momentary  sense  that  he  would  never  get 
rid  of  them,  they  clung  so.  But  they  told  him  that  she 
had  not  been  without  the  fear  he  had  meant  to  soothe. 
She  understood  too  quickly  for  it  not  to  have  been  there 
all  the  time.  She  had  kept  it  back,  but  it  had  been  there. 

"You  know,  and  I  know  that  Lola  wasn't  responsible. 
But  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  all  the  neighbors  seem  to 
think  that  Giuseppe — respected  her.  I  mean :  they  don't 
think  she  was  Giuseppe's  mistress.  And  I  needn't  say 

319 


LOST  VALLEY 

that  that  is  sufficiently  extraordinary — well,  you  might 
say,  to  prove  it.  Giuseppe  was  no  saint;  he  had  his  lady 
loves.  But  he  treated  Lola  like  a  child.  There  seemed  to 
be  nothing  between  them  but  the  monkey.  Lola  cared 
for  nothing  else  .  .  .  and  Giuseppe  himself  seems  to  have 
spoken  very  freely.  No  one  would  have  been  shocked, 
you  realize:  so  I  call  it  valuable  testimony." 

Now  that  his  speech  was  over,  Madge  removed  her  eyes 
from  his.  Desmond  felt  a  physical  relief. 

She  rubbed  a  finger  on  the  tablecloth,  looking  very 
steadily  down  at  her  own  hand. 

"I  never  let  myself  think  about  it  too  much,"  she  said 
haltingly  at  last.  "I  couldn't.  I  can  see  you  think  I've 
put  Lola  on  a  pedestal  and  sort  of  worshiped  her.  I 
haven't.  I  was  afraid,  back  in  Lost  Valley,  of  a  man 
there — Bert  Breen.  Mr.  Burton  could  have  told  you 
that.  If  Lola  had  done  what  she  shouldn't,  I  couldn't 
have  blamed  her.  She  didn't  know.  But  what  I  always 
said  was  true:  Lola  was  naturally  good.  She  wasn't 
bad.  I  always  knew"  (she  mused) — "in  spite  of  Moll 
Breen,  and  Miss  Martin,  and  all  of  them — it  was  the 
monkey  she  followed.  And  at  the  last  the  only  thing  she 
cared  about,  except  me,  was  Taddeo.  She  couldn't  for 
give  Giuseppe  for  killing  him.  .  .  ."  Then  she  raised  her 
head.  "The  one  thing  I  prayed  for  at  home  was  to  keep 
Lola  from  harm.  And  I  never  expected  to  do  it  always. 
Lola  hadn't  any  strength  like  the  rest  of  us.  It  seems  like 
a  kind  of  miracle  to  me  now,  when  I  think  of  all  that  was 
against  her.  I  don't  believe  God  would  have  judged  her 
if  things  had  been  different.  But" — she  smiled  up  into 
his  face — "I'm  glad  of  everything  I've  been  through,  and 
she's  been  through,  to  have  it  come  out  this  way.  I'd 
rather  have  had  that  cruel  Pietro  kill  my  darling  than  to 
have  had  her  safe  at  home  and  go  to  Bert  Breen  in  the  end. 
And  with  all  I  could  do,  it  would  have  happened.  And 
320 


LOST  VALLEY 

even  then" — she  looked  straight  ahead  of  her  as  if  seeing 
things  very  surely  for  one  vouchsafed  moment  of  clair 
voyance — "Moll  Breen  would  have  killed  her,  I  believe. 
I  don't  mean  to  make  light  of  Lola's  suffering,  but  that 
would  have  been  worse  than  this.  And  I  feel,  somehow, 
that  Lola  knows  everything  now,  and  that  she's  glad, 
too."  She  fell  silent. 

"So  that's  that,"  Desmond  murmured.  Not  her  mys 
ticism  but  her  shrewdness,  curiously,  seemed  to  him  the 
astonishing  phenomenon. 

Madge  did  not  hear  him.  She  was  gathering  her  hand 
kerchief  and  little  bag,  ready  for  departure.  She  did  not 
seem  to  expect  any  formal  comment  on  her  words. 

At  the  door  of  the  restaurant,  she  took  her  leave  of  him. 
She  would  not  permit  him  to  escort  her  home,  and  Des 
mond,  driven  by  neglected  work,  did  not  insist. 

"  Thank  you  ever  so  much — for  everything.  I  hope  I'll 
see  you  again  before  I  leave  New  York.  I've  sent  for  the 
money  to  pay  you  back.  When  it  comes,  I  shall  go." 

"I'd  much  rather  you  never  paid  it."  He  thought  of 
Arthur,  against  whom  his  resentment,  for  some  unknown 
reason,  lasted. 

"Oh,  but  I  must,  of  course.  Miss  Martin  will  send  it 
to  me  right  off,  I  know — and  I  can  pay  her  any  time." 

"  I  didn't  have  much  on  my  person  when  your  telephone 
call  came.  So  I  got  it  from  Arthur  Burton.  It's  to  him 
you  ought  to  return  it,  if  you  insist." 

Madge  flushed  in  the  darkness  of  the  sidewalk  where 
they  stood.  "I  don't  think  I  could  do  that,  Mr.  Reilly. 
If  I  give  it  to  you,  I  can  trust  you  to  return  it  to 
him." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  can  or  not."    Reilly  smiled. 

"Then  will  you  give  me  the  address  of  somebody  I  can 
trust  to  give  it  to  him?" 

Reilly  chuckled.    "Juanita.    Miss  Dodd,  you  know." 

321 


LOST  VALLEY 

Madge  turned  away.  "I  am  sorry.  I  can't  believe 
that  if  I  send  it  to  you,  you  won't  give  it  back  to  him." 

"He's  in  Chicago,  staying  with  the  John  Lawrences. 
How  can  I  give  it  back  to  him?  " 

She  ignored  his  levity.  "  I  am  sorry  to  have  asked  you 
the  one  thing  you  seem  not  to  be  willing  to  do." 

"Sorry,  too."  He  lifted  his  hat.  "There's  what  Arthur 
would  call  a  Milesian  devil  in  me  that  absolutely  prevents 
my  handing  that  money  back  to  him." 

"Did  he  know  what  it  was  for?" 

"He  did." 

"Did  he  think  I  asked  him  for  it?"  This  person  was 
very  strange.  She  could  not  tell  what  he  might  have 
done. 

"He  did  not." 

"It  was  very  kind  of  him,"  she  said  coldly. 

"It  was  not  kind  of  him.  I  forced  him  to  give  me  all 
the  money  he  had,  and  he  missed  his  train  to  Chicago  in 
consequence." 

Madge  moved  away.  "I  seem  to  have  given  trouble  to 
a  great  many  people.  I  am  sorry  for  that — and  very 
grateful,  too.  But  I'll  be  glad  to  be  where  I  don't  have 
to  ask  things  of  strangers." 

Before  he  could  reply  or  reach  her,  she  had  slipped 
round  a  corner  into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

ARTHUR  BURTON  enjoyed  his  visit  to  the  Law 
rences,  though  he  found  himself  flung  almost  ex 
clusively  on  Clara  Lawrence's  hands.  The  mere  comfort 
of  knowing  there  were  a  thousand  recorded  miles  between 
him  and  New  York  was  very  great.  When  Mrs.  Lawrence 
suddenly  asked  him  to  stay  beyond  his  week,  he  accepted 
as  fervently  as  though  Chicago  had  been  a  rare  and  benef 
icent  drug.  Arthur  had  had  the  badgered  sense,  before 
he  left  New  York,  that  Madge  Lockerby,  or  worse  still, 
Desmond  Reilly  flaunting  Madge  Lockerby's  colors,  might 
pop  out  at  him  from  behind  any  door,  might  rush  at  him 
from  the  most  casual  ambush  of  the  streets.  Even  when 
he  wras  safely  locked  in  his  studio,  refusing  admittance  to 
all  and  sundry,  there  were  furtive  suggestions  and  visions, 
ghosts  against  which  no  doors  availed.  The  thing  was 
turning  into  a  nuisance.  Distance  gave  an  immense  re 
lief.  He  lounged  about  the  stately  house  with  the  explicit 
comfortable  consciousness  that  neither  Madge  Lockerby, 
nor  Desmond  Reilly,  nor  Juanita,  could  possibly  be  con 
cealed  behind  any  of  the  mahogany  portals. 

He  could  not,  however,  stay  indefinitely.  There  came 
a  moment  when  further  reprieve  could  not  decently  be 
looked  for.  His  own  landscapes,  seen  daily  in  their  shrine, 
bred  in  him  an  imperative  passion  for  more,  and  kindred 
discoveries  ...  to  explore  some  other  wild,  forsaken  coun 
try  and  suck  the  beauty  out  of  that.  This  passion 
seconded  his  growing  disgust  for  his  own  place.  Face 
June  in  New  York?  He  couldn't;  he  wouldn't.  And  as 

323 


LOST  VALLEY 

he  fed  and  watered  his  desire,  he  came  to  feel  it  was  mon 
strous  he  should  have  to  go  back  at  all,  before  the  autumn. 
He  wanted  to  go  West,  not  East.  A  certain  impatience 
took  him,  the  last  days  of  his  visit,  an  impatience  of  all 
psychology,  of  all  human  beings  who  did  not  hold  a  paint 
brush  in  their  hands.  Even  with  these  folk,  after  so  short 
a  time,  he  wanted  to  have  done.  He  must  be  about  his 
own  business. 

"Let  us  cut  out  these  other  things,"  Mrs.  Lawrence 
said  to  him  suddenly  after  lunch,  "and  drive.  There  is 
no  month  like  May — and  nothing  to  bring  down  fever  like 
motion." 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  when  you  go  back? 
Just  paint?  "  she  asked,  as  the  car  floated,  without  friction 
and  with  inexplicable  speed,  along  a  firm  road. 

"Paint,  if  I  go  back." 

"Oh,  you  have  other  plans?" 

"I  must  go  West — now,  at  once,"  he  said.  "I  won't 
go  back  to  that  stifling  metropolis.  I've  been  saving 
money  for  Europe.  Hang  Europe!  I  can't  dive  back 
into  that  sweat-hole.  You  don't  know  how  stale  it  is! 
The  people,  the  talk,  the  streets,  the  thoughts  and  the 
feelings  that  sit  on  your  shoulders  and  clasp  their  legs 
round  your  neck.  .  .  .  I've  got  to  get  out  in  the  open; 
go  to  some  place  where  the  mountains  come  down  to  the 
desert  and  there's  not  a  thing  in  sight,  of  any  use  to  any 
body  except  the  man  with  eyes  in  his  head.  Then  I  could 
paint.  The  mere  look  of  those  landscapes  of  mine  in  Mr. 
Lawrence's  room  has  set  me  going.  They 're  good:  they're 
damned  good.  I  want  to  go  to  some  other  place  and  do 
it  all  over  again.  New  York  is  on  my  nerves.  I  want  to 
sit  down  once  more  before  the  real  thing — not  do  land 
scapes  out  of  my  head,  or  genre  out  of  the  window.  So 
I  want  some  tips  out  of  your  husband." 

"I  can't  think  he'll  refuse  to  give  them  to  you.  After 
324 


LOST  VALLEY 

all,  it  is  not  his  affair.    And  if  there's  one  thing  that  seems 
to  him  unimportant,  it's  painting." 

"Oh — I  thought  he  was  rather  keen  about  it.  He  has 
the  real  accent  when  he  talks  of  Whicher." 

"Yes,  yes.  He  knows  a  thing  or  two.  You  can't  men 
tion  anything  about  which  that  extraordinary  man  doesn't 
know  a  thing  or  two." 

"If  it  doesn't  sound  too  cocky,  I  might  mention  that  he 
knew  enough  to  like  my  pictures."  Arthur  laughed. 

Mrs.  Lawrence  bent  over  and  murmured  through  the 
tube  to  the  chauffeur.  "It's  time  we  turned,"  she  said. 
And  presently  Leviathan  accomplished  the  gesture  with 
miraculous  ease. 

They  had  made  a  mile  or  two  of  the, homeward  run  be 
fore  she  answered.  "Yes,  he  likes  your  pictures.  But  I 
don't  think  he  thinks  it  a  man's  job,  all  the  same." 

"Doesn't  he  see  that  there  is  a  certain  fortitude  in  giving 
oneself  to  an  occupation  that  will  never  make  one  a 
millionaire?" 

"I  think  he  would  want  to  know,  first,  whether  you 
had  ever  had  a  chance  at  an  occupation  that  would  make 
you  a  millionaire." 

"Oh,  come — Mr.  Lawrence  and  I  are  as  far  apart  as  the 
poles,  but  I  am  perfectly  sure  he's  not  a  gold  worshiper." 

"No,  he's  not  that.    But  a  worshiper  of  power,  yes." 

"Well,  that's  real,  at  least." 

"Real?  He  is  the  most  real  human  being  I  have  ever 
known.  One  reason,  probably,  why  he  doesn't  go  in  for 
the  imponderables." 

"Do  you  consider  a  picture  an  imponderable?" 

She  did  not  reply  directly.  "I  think  you'll  find,  if  you 
go  over  the  pictures  in  the  house,  that  they  all  have  a 
definite,  catalogued  market  value.  Except  yours,  per 
haps."  She  smiled  at  him  provokingly. 

"You  just  wait  until  mine  have  aged  a  bit." 

325 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Oh,  I  have  every  faith  in  you." 

"He  must  have  had  a  little." 

"You  painted  Lost  Valley.  Don't  forget  that.  Has  he 
ever  shown  any  sign  of  wanting  anything  else  of  yours?" 

"No." 

"Good  though  you  may  be,  he  doesn't  want  you  in 
general.  But  he's  just  bought  another  Whicher." 

"That  shows  taste,  anyhow." 

"Oh,  his  taste  is  excellent.  No;  all  I  mean  is  this. 
He  had  a  flicker  of  interest  in  you;  he's  always  had  it 
on  his  mind  to  ask  you  out.  But  flickers  don't  last  long. 
What  I  think,  my  dear  Mr.  Burton,  is  that  you  may, 
in  the  easy  way  of  the  world,  have  counted  John  Law 
rence  a  friend  of  yours.  Perfectly  natural.  As  far  as 
I  know,  he  is  very  friendly  to  you.  But  a  friend — there 
are  very  few  men  living  who  call  John  Lawrence  friend. 
His  family  seems  to  suffice  to  him.  He's  like  a  man 
who  has  cared  about  a  woman,  back  in  his  youth.  I 
am  very  sure  that  he  never  did.  But  something  in  him, 
back  there,  suffered  atrophy.  I  have  sometimes  wished 
it  had  been  a  woman.  I  could  have  dealt  with  a  grande 
passion — like  that!"  She  gave  a  little  laughing  wave 
of  her  hand.  "I  have  studied  this  over  for  twenty-five 
years,  and  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it  is  his 
inheritance,  those  difficult  early  years,  the  lack  of  happi 
ness  in  boyhood,  the  dreadful  handicap  he  started  with, 
which  made  it  impossible  for  him  ever  to  spare  a  moment 
of  his  time  for  just  being  young.  ...  I  think  that  is 
what  it  is.  Now  you  know — if  you  didn't  before — why 
I  hate  Lost  Valley.  You  got  out  before  you  were  born. 
You  don't  have  to  hate  it." 

Arthur  had  the  sudden  perception  that  Clara  Lawrence, 
whatever  her  manners  and  customs,  had  always  been 
in  love  with  her  husband.  For  some  undefined  reason, 
it  put  him  off  and  made  him  sulky.  He  turned  his 
326 


LOST  VALLEY 

back,  mentally  speaking,  on  the  Lawrences,  and  pro* 
ceeded  to  think  out  his  own  plans  with  feverish  incon-< 
sequence.  With  half -shut  eyes,  he  edified  the  approaching 
sky  line  of  Chicago  into  the  mountain  ranges  of  his 
desire. 

They  had,  that  night,  a  single  dinner  guest,  who  did 
not  stay  late.  By  mid-evening,  Arthur,  John  Lawrence, 
and  his  son  Percy  were  left  to  themselves  in  the  big 
library,  for  Mrs.  Lawrence  went  to  her  own  sitting  room 
to  write  notes  and  do  various  telephonings.  John  Law 
rence  watched  Percy  and  Arthur  as  they  wandered  about 
together,  affable  but  never  intimate.  Then  Percy 
drifted  off  into  the  farthest  background,  where  he  switched 
on  a  wall-light  and  began  selecting  objects  in  a  cabinet. 

Lawrence  addressed  Arthur,  who  came  promptly  for 
ward.  "I  have  something  for  you,  Mr.  Burton.  Wait 
here,  and  I'll  get  it."  He  walked  out  of  the  library 
into  his  own  room. 

Percy  strolled  up  to  Arthur,  jingling  some  objects  in 
his  hand.  "Nice  bits  of  jade,"  he  said.  "Mother  and 
I  picked  them  up  in  Peking.  After  all,  you  know,  the 
Occident  is  really  no  good." 

"I  hate  jade."  Arthur  turned  his  back  on  the  young 
man,  and  faced  John  Lawrence,  who  had  returned. 

"Some  money,"  said  Lawrence  curtly.  "It  came 
to-day  in  a  money  order.  With  a  letter  requesting  me 
to  return  it  to  you,  if  you  were  still  here — to  forward  it, 
if  you  had  left."  He  withdrew  the  bills  from  the  enve-. 
lope  and  handed  them  to  Arthur. 

"Oh!     Desmond  Reilly,  I  suppose." 

"No.  Reuben  Lockerby's  granddaughter.  Apparently 
she  has  been  in  New  York." 

Arthur  was  perplexed.  "You  mean  that  she  wrote," 
asking  you  to  return  the  money  to  me?" 

"Yes." 
22  327 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Then  Reilly  told  her  where  he  got  it,"  the  young 
man  mused.  He  sat  down  suddenly,  and  looked  at  the 
bills. 

"So  she  says.  And  she  greatly  regrets  having  incon 
venienced  you." 

Arthur  whistled  beneath  his  breath.  "I  wish  you'd 
let  me  see  that  letter." 

"I  can't  very  well  do  that."  Lawrence  pocketed  it. 
"But  I  should  like  very  much  to  know  that  story — if 
you  know  it." 

"I  suppose  I  do."  Arthur  did  not  in  the  least  feel 
like  telling  it.  "But— hasn't  she  told  you  herself?" 

"Only  that  her  sister  was  dying  in  New  York — killed 
in  some  Italian  brawl — and  that,  when  she  asked  Mr. 
Reilly  for  the  money,  she  was  in  great  haste  and  very 
desperate.  She  had  not  known  until  he  told  her  later, 
that  he  had  borrowed  it  from  you.  But  what,  in  Heaven's 
name,  has  Andrew's  niece  to  do  with  Italian  brawls?  I 
suppose  the  sister  was  that  lovely  half-witted  child  I 
saw  in  Lost  Valley?" 

Arthur  saw  that  he  would  have  to  come  out  with  the 
story.  He  acquiesced  more  or  less  gracefully.  "Only 
Reilly  rather  took  it  out  of  my  hands,"  he  explained.  "So 
more  or  less  of  it  I  got  from  him.  I've  seen  Madge  Locker- 
by  once  or  twice  recently,  but  Reilly  took  her  on." 

Lawrence  looked  at  him  half  interrogatively,  but  did 
not  interrupt. 

Arthur  told  Madge  Lockerby's  story  slowly.  He  omitted 
his  own  glimpse  of  her  in  Pell  Street,  and  his  misconcep 
tions.  Reilly  had  persevered  until  he  had  forced  Arthur 
to  admit  that  his  suspicions  were  lightly  formed  and  un 
worthy.  In  his  most  secret  mind  he  really  did  acquit 
Madge  of  anything  approaching  loose  conduct.  But  the 
result  of  his  earlier  suspicions — dwelt  upon,  brooded  over, 
partly  out  of  antagonism  to  Reilly's  attitude — was  to 
328 


LOST  VALLEY 

blind  him  to  the  quality  of  the  tale  itself.  He  gave  his 
summary  as  accurately  as  possible,  but  he  let  his  imagina 
tion  go  to  sleep  while  he  did  it. 

"Of  course  I  don't  know  what  happened  hi  the  end," 
he  said  finally.  "I  have  naturally  heard  nothing  but 
Reilly's  few  excited  words  when  he  came  in  for  the  money. 
He  didn't  know — except  that  Miss  Lockerby  was  with 
her  sister  in  a  downtown  hospital,  and  that  the  sister  was 
evidently  dying.  That,  of  course,  means  she  did  find  her. 
More  than  that,  I  don't  know.  In  fact,  your  letter  prob 
ably  finishes  the  tale  better  than  I  can." 

"The  letter  says  that  Lola  was  killed  accidentally  by 
another  Italian  who  had  it  hi  for  the  owner  of  the  monkey. 
The  child  was  trying  to  save  the  monkey  and  got  stabbed. 
The  owner — the  man  with  whom  the  girl  was  staying  in 
New  York — killed  the  other  man,  and  the  monkey  too. 
He  has  confessed  the  whole  thing."  Lawrence  spoke 
abruptly,  but  to  the  point. 

In  a  moment  Lawrence  turned  again  to  Arthur.  "Did 
Madge  Lockerby  ever  say  anything  to  you  about  Andrew's 
attitude  to  all  this?" 

"I  made  out  that  he  cut  up  pretty  rough  about  her 
leaving  home  to  hunt  for  her  sister.  Andrew  wasn't  pre 
cisely  fond  of  Lola." 

"No.  The  illegitimacy  would  have  hit  him  hard." 
Lawrence  seemed  to  muse.  "Madge  must  have  had  to 
go  it  entirely  alone.  Had  it  told  on  her  a  great  deal?" 

Arthur  frowned  impatiently.  "  She  looked  like  a  sibyl, 
once,  in  my  rooms,  I  remember.  She  had  learned  tragedy. 
But  she  seemed  to  be  in  perfect  health." 

"How  did  it  happen  she  didn't  borrow  this  money  of 
you?" 

"We  weren't  on  the  best  terms.  I  can't  say  more.  It 
is  impossible  to  explain.  She  insulted  me  the  first  time 
I  saw  her,  and  I  resented  that.  Then  she  apologized,  but 

329 


LOST  VALLEY 

it  left  a  bad  taste.  Then,  on  my  side,  I  was  guilty  of  cer 
tain  misinterpretations.  All  that  is  perfectly  dead  stuff. 
It's  over.  I  think  there  are  now  no  misconceptions  any 
where.  Reilly  has  apparently  taken  her  over." 

"It  is  not,  strictly  speaking,  my  affair,"  Lawrence  said. 
"But  if  you  feel  you  can  tell  me — Valley  stock  to  Valley 
stock — why  Reilly  wouldn't  return  the  money  to  you  for 
her,  since  he  borrowed  it  for  her,  I  should  very  much  like 
to  know." 

Arthur  could  not  prevent  the  flush  that  darkened  his 
face  to  his  very  temples.  But  he  spoke  temperately. 
"Desmond  Reilly  is  a  brilliant,  unreasonable,  battling 
Irishman.  He  spends  his  whole  Me  looking  for  under 
dogs,  so  that  he  may  get  up  a  moral  excuse  for  a  fight. 
He  chose  to  think  that  I  owed  Madge  Lockerby  repara 
tion  for  having  temporarily  misjudged  her  in  certain 
particulars.  I  am  very  sure  that  Madge  Lockerby  doesn't 
think  I  owe  her  anything.  That's  all  Desmond.  He's 
perfectly  impossible." 

John  Lawrence's  eyes  bored  him  through.  "On  your 
honor,  she  has  no  reason  to  think  that  you  owe  her 
anything?" 

Arthur  still  kept  his  temper.  "Mr.  Lawrence,  there 
has  never  been  anything  between  me  and  any  Lockerby 
except  the  commonest  friendliness  until,  a  few  weeks  ago, 
Madge  Lockerby  turned  up  in  my  studio  and  because 
she  saw  an  old  picture  of  Lola,  done  from  memory,  on  an 
easel,  accused  me  of  abducting  the  girl — of  whom,  natu 
rally,  I  had  heard  nothing  since  I  painted  your  pictures. 
I  have  seen  Madge  Lockerby  once  since  then — but  not 
alone.  I  am  not  going  into  the  business,  for  you  or  any 
one  else.  She  has  my  respect,  and  there  is  no  good  reason 
on  earth  why  I  should  not  have  hers." 

John  Lawrence  sighed  as  he  turned  away.  "She  has 
had  a  hard  life.  It  was  hard  enough  before  all  this  hap- 
330 


LOST  VALLEY 

pened.  It  will  be  harder  still  to  go  back  to  Andrew  and 
the  grandmother.  And  she  probably  cared  for  you." 

Arthur  clenched  his  fists  hi  a  gesture  of  pure  exaspera 
tion.  "I  won't  have  it,"  he  declared.  "Reilly  tells  me 
that — you  tell  me  that.  You  haven't,  either  of  you,  a 
shadow  of  evidence  to  go  on.  I  don't  believe  it  for  a 
moment.  You're  simply  trying,  both  of  you,  to  push  the 
girl  off  on  me.  She  wouldn't  thank  you!  Let  those  who 
are  so  impressed  by  Madge  Lockerby  look  after  her.  I 
have  every  good  thing  to  say  of  her,  but  she's  no  affair 
of  mine.  I  never  want  to  lay  eyes  on  her  again.  I  liked 
her,  up  in  the  Valley;  we  were  perfectly  good  friends. 
But  when  it  comes  to  mixing  her  up  hi  my  life,  it's  too 
much.  She's  handsome,  she's  dignified,  she's  intelligent, 
she's  good — but  I'm  not  to  be  saddled  with  her  affairs 
just  because  both  our  grandfathers  were  born  in  Lost 
Valley.  She  isn't  my  kind.  I'm  not  hers." 

"I  was  thinking  only  of  the  sum  of  her  burdens,"  replied 
Lawrence  sternly.  "  I  really  wasn't  thinking  of  you  at  all." 

John  Lawrence  passed  into  his  own  room. 

He  sat  down  in  a  luxurious  chair,  and  after  some  hesi 
tation  lighted  a  cigar.  Lights  were  arranged  to  illumine 
Arthur's  pictures  perfectly  at  night.  After  a  little,  he 
got  up  and  switched  off  all  other  lights,  then  resumed  his 
comfortable  attitude  opposite  the  landscapes,  with  his 
cigar.  This  young  man  had  painted  those  pictures.  He 
looked  at  them  with  sudden  gratitude,  as  if  they  had 
flowered  from  a  seed  whence  no  gardener  could  expect 
such  a  bloom.  He  did  not  blame  Burton  for  not  being  in 
love  with  the  girl.  There  was  no  reason  why  he  should 
be,  and  John  Lawrence  was  far  too  wise  to  have  looked 
for  any  such  consummation.  What  had  astonished  him 
was  Arthur's  complete  lack  of  perception  in  the  matter 
of  the  story  itself.  Burton  had  all  those  elements  under 
his  hand — for  where  had  he,  John  Lawrence,  got  them, 

331 


LOST  VALLEY 

save  from  Arthur? — and  he  simply  did  not  feel  it.  Prob^ 
ably  he,  Lawrence,  could  enter  more  fully  than  young 
Burton  into  Madge  Lockerby 's  psychology;  but  even  an 
outlander — apparently  even  this  Reilly  fellow — could  be 
swept  away  with  pity  and  comprehension.  When  Law 
rence  had  stated  that  Madge  was  in  love  with  Arthur, 
it  was  merely  because  that  occurred  to  him  as  another 
draught  of  bitterness  that  had  been  held  to  her  lips.  Yes, 
he  might  know  better  than  Arthur  what  it  would  all 
mean  to  a  Lockerby;  but  he  must  needs  sit  in  judgment 
on  an  imagination  that  was  utterly  unaffected  by  the  girl's 
story.  He  would  not  make  it,  in  his  own  mind,  a  moral 
matter:  it  was  a  fault  of  the  intelligence.  By  rights, 
Arthur  should  nave  been  more  moved  than  he:  Arthur 
who  had  known  Madge,  who  had  spent  weeks  under  the 
same  roof,  who  had  witnessed  the  ravages,  in  her  face,  of 
all  this  late  experience.  It  was  apparently  left  for  him  to 
feel — for  him  who  had  seen  her  but  once,  clasping  Lola's 
shoulder,  in  Andrew  Lockerby's  farmyard. 

Probably,  after  he  went,  there  would  be  no  piety,  any 
where,  for  Lost  Valley.  There  was  none  in  the  Valley 
itself:  there  was  no  soul  left  there — unless  this  girl,  Madge 
— even  capable  of  it;  and  Madge  had  no  reason  to  love 
the  scene  of  her  captivity.  He  remembered  every  word  Si 
Mann  had  told  him:  Si's  talk  had  bitten  in  very  deep. 
All  that  he  cared  most  for  in  his  country  had  come,  at 
one  remove  or  many,  from  the  Lost  Valleys  of  the  East. 
He  defrauded  no  other  kindred  hamlets  of  their  due; 
but  this  was  his  own,  and  till  his  blood  chilled,  he  would 
cherish  it  in  secret,  if  need  be.  Madge  Lockerby  was 
going  back.  He  envied  her  that  journey,  even  though  he 
knew  how  little  promise  she  could  find  in  it.  But,  at 
worst,  she  would  see  the  shadows  on  Roundtop  and  hear 
the  plashing  of  the  brook.  .  .  .  He  stared,  as  a  man  dazed, 
at  the  Valley  spread  out  beneath  the  pass.  Nothing  to 
332 


LOST  VALLEY 

be  done  with  it,  now.  .  .  .  But  he  was  glad  that  this  youth 
and  strength  and  virtue  were  returning  to  it  for  a  while. 
A  hard  way  for  them  to  be  spent;  yet  he  hoped — he  hoped 
Madge  Lockerby  would  last  his  time.  The  Valley  was  not 
wholly  enshadowed  while  the  last  of  the  Lockerbys 
endured  within  it. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

MADGE  had  dressed  herself  carefully  for  her  farewell 
visit.  She  wore  a  dark-blue  cotton  voile  with  a 
filet  lace  collar — a  Division  Street  bargain;  Cordovan 
pumps  with  stockings  to  match;  and  the  hat  with  the 
curving  wing,  which  was  still  new  and  wonderful  to  her. 
Violet  had  gone  shopping  with  her,  or  she  could  never 
have  afforded  the  pumps.  What  Violet's  winks  and 
squints  and  raucous  Yiddish  meant,  she  had  no  notion; 
but  she  found  herself  achieving  the  pumps  at  an  unheard- 
of  price.  Her  trim  feet,  which  had  never  hurt  her  in  her 
life,  looked  extraordinarily  shapely  in  the  pointed  shoes. 
She  could  hardly  believe  they  were  her  own.  Of  course 
she  had  meant  to  get  some  cheap  Oxfords;  but  these  were 
irresistible.  Sheer  vanity  carried  the  day;  vanity,  and  a 
faint  adventurous  stirring  of  the  heart  that  bade  her  for 
once  step  out  of  her  deep  narrow  rut  and  walk  the  broad 
highway. 

She  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass  above  her  yellow- 
painted  bureau.  The  collar  and  the  tucked  chemisette 
of  white  organdie  framed  her  firm  slender  neck,  and  led 
up  to  the  coloring — clear  brown  and  crimson — of  the  face 
under  the  hat,  and  the  dark  curve  of  hair  beneath  the 
brim.  Madge  never  considered  that  she  had  beauty; 
but  she  had,  in  times  past,  dreamed  over  her  face  as  young 
things  will,  wondering  if  it  would  pass  muster  with  the 
unknown  folk  outside  the  Valley.  She  was  satisfied  now, 
because  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  looked  like  anyone  else, 
that  no  one  would  read  Lost  Valley  on  that  forehead.  Then 
334 


LOST  VALLEY 

she  looked  down  at  her  pumps,  and  sighed  with  content. 
They  were  surely  beautiful;  thus  incased,  her  feet  could 
step  anywhere  in  the  world.  Now  that  she  was  leaving 
New  York  for  good,  she  had  a  queer  belated  longing  to 
satisfy  its  judgment — to  be  recognizably  a  misfit  in  the 
shabby  quarter  where  she  had  made  her  home.  She 
opened  the  warped  drawer  of  her  bureau,  took  out  some 
thing  wrapped  in  tissue  paper,  and  held  it  lovingly.  It 
was  a  beaded  bag,  given  her  as  a  farewell  token  by  the 
girls  in  her  room  at  the  factory.  She  held  it  at  her  side 
and  marked  the  pleasing  contrast  of  its  colored  pattern 
against  the  dark  blue  of  her  dress.  By  her  simple  stand 
ards,  it  was  the  last  necessary  touch  to  the  likeness  of  a 
worldly  woman.  She  sighed  again,  contented. 

Gloves,  now.  Her  money  safely  snapped  into  the 
bag.  She  was  ready  for  Doyers  Street.  She  looked 
like  an  uptown  tourist  herself,  and  there  was  a  strangely 
pleasant  savor  in  that.  A  Lockerby  ought  to  look,  in 
Chinatown,  like  an  uptown  tourist.  There  would  be 
humiliation  enough  for  her,  personally,  at  home.  But 
in  New  York,  for  once,  she  could  uphold  the  honor  of 
the  Valley.  She  did  not  even  smile  at  herself  as  she 
went  down  the  stairs  and  out  of  the  door.  Remember: 
she  was  not  much  over  twenty,  and  never  once  in  the 
last  year  had  she  failed  (as  she  very  well  knew)  to  look 
outlandish  to  the  urban  eye.  Once  in  the  streets,  being 
an  almost  abnormally  normal  young  person,  she  forgot. 
The  beauty  of  not  being  outlandish  is  that  you  can  forget. 
In  the  obscurity  of  evening  she  even  ceased  to  notice 
how  delicately  the  pumps  pointed  her  way. 

To-night,  this,  she  thought,  as  she  walked  through 
the  familiar,  crowded,  odorous  streets.  To-morrow, 
Boston,  where  she  would  stay  with  Miss  Powers.  The 
next  day — home.  Once  more  she  would  let  herself  go 
among  the  mitigations  she  had  found  here,  the  little  pool 

335 


LOST  VALLEY 

of  peace  in  the  surrounding  clamor.  Once  more  she 
would  gather  strength  from  Jee  Gam.  She  would  need 
all  he  could  give  her — a  girl  who  had  to  face  Andrew 
Lockerby  within  forty-eight  hours.  No,  she  mustn't 
think  of  Andrew  Lockerby.  She  must  think  only  of 
Jee  Gam.  Perhaps,  though  it  was  evening,  he  would 
let  her  dust  the  dulcimer  once  more.  Quong  Wah  had 
promised  to  be  there,  so  that  they  could  talk.  She 
would  rather  have  been  alone  with  the  old  man;  but 
they  could  not  speak  to  each  other  without  Quong. 

The  young  Chinaman  was  watching  for  her  at  the 
corner  of  Mott  and  Pell  streets.  He  lifted  his  hat  and 
joined  her.  She  was  going  away,  he  knew,  so  he  did 
not  care  how  many  people  saw  him.  Besides,  she  looked 
now  like  a  lady  student  at  the  university.  She  wore 
gloves  and  pointed,  senseless  shoes,  and  carried  a  gaudy 
bag.  All  these  things  were  ugly  in  his  eyes,  but  they 
were  American  and  fashionable.  Yes,  she  was  much 
smarter  than  the  young  women  who  came  to  the  mis 
sionary  meetings.  Probably  she  had  a  family,  after 
all,  and  the  family  had  forgiven  her.  He  was  very  polite, 
as  they  made  their  way  to  the  cellar. 

Jee  Gam  had  caused  a  feast  to  be  prepared.  Ginger, 
^Weetmeats,  lichi  nuts,  rice  cakes,  and  hot  tea  from  a 
restaurant  near  by,  awaited  them.  Madge  felt  the  tears 
come,  as  she  beheld  the  squat  little  stands.  It  was  the 
first  time  in  all  her  life  that  a  table  had  been  spread  in 
her  honor. 

She  turned  to  Quong.  "Ask  him  if  I  may  dust  the 
dulcimer  once  more."  And  she  busied  herself  with  the 
spotless  bit  of  silk  until  she  had  control  of  herself. 

The  old  man  raised  his  head.     "Tell  her  that  I  have 
bidden  the  American,  too.     We  must  not  touch  the  food 
until  he  comes.     He  will  not  be  late,  I  hope.     The  tea 
will  cool." 
336 


LOST  VALLEY 

"He  says  he  has  invited  your  friend,"  Quong  reported 
obediently.  "But  he  is  afraid  the  tea  will  get  cold." 

"My  friend?" 

"The  young  man  who  has  visited  him  sometimes, 
these  many  years,  and  who  has  been  here  before  with 
you." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Reilly.  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  wait  for 
him.  Tell  Jee  Gam  so.  It  is  for  us,  more  than  Mr. 
Reilly." 

The  musician  acquiesced,  and  the  strange  feast  began. 
Exquisitely  and  silently,  the  two  Chinamen  drank  and 
ate.  Quong  did  the  service,  meanwhile,  waiting  softly, 
for  all  his  clumping  American  shoes,  on  the  old  man 
and  the  girl.  It  was  all  very  quiet,  and  the  ceremonial 
touch  was  so  obvious  that  Madge  found  herself  thinking 
of  the  communion  services  she  had  once  or  twice  attended 
in  Siloam  church.  She  was  not  hungry,  she  did  not 
like  the  pale,  flowery  tea,  and  the  ginger  hurt  her  tongue. 
But  she  felt,  none  the  less,  that  a  certain  dignity  was 
imparted  to  her  by  the  occasion,  and  that,  she  savored. 
This  cellar,  with  the  warm  May  air  drifting  in,  was  a 
place  where  they  waited  on  her  commands.  Desmond 
Reilly  had  been  invited,  but  she  had  only  to  say  that 
they  should  not  wait  for  him.  .  .  .  She  was  going  back 
to  a  place  where  she  was,  morally,  nothing — in  disgrace, 
besides.  She  had  not  failed  to  note  the  quaint  change 
in  Quong's  manner.  A  certain  spot  that  all  her  pride 
had  not  kept  from  hurting  was  soothed.  Quong  broke 
in  on  her  abstraction.  "He  says,  are  you  wearing  the 
piece  of  jade,  and  I  told  him  you  are." 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is  lovely.     I  shall  always  wear  it." 

"It  is  very  nice  jade,"  Quong  said  glibly,  on  his  own 
responsibility.  "Jee  Gam  did  not  give  it  to  you  for  that, 
but  it  is  carved  with  good  symbols,  meant  to  bring  the 
blessing  of  Heaven.  What  do  you  say? — an  amulet. 

337 


LOST  VALLEY 

Of  course  he  knows  as  well  as  we  do  that  is  all  super 
stition.  But  it  is  veiy  good  jade." 

"What  do  the  carvings  mean?"  Madge  looked  down 
at  the  ornament. 

"Oh,  it  is  very  complicated,  and  now  just  a  convention. 
But  it  is  an  amulet,  all  the  same.  It  invokes  divine  pro 
tection  by  charms." 

Jee  Gam's  voice  broke  in  again.  He  moved  his  hands 
a  little  as  he  spoke  earnestly,  and  the  ivory-tipped  stick 
chattered  against  the  side  of  the  dulcimer. 

"It  is  a  pity,"  said  Quong  at  length,  "that  you  and  he 
cannot  speak  together.  I  can  understand  him,  because  I 
am  Chinese,  after  all,  but  I  cannot  explain.  He  is  a  great 
metaphysician"  (he  stammered  a  little  over  the  word), 
"but  not  like  your  philosophers.  I  could  expound  Hegel, 
but  I  cannot  expound  Jee  Gam's  words.  They  are  a  dif 
ferent  vocabulary.  It  is  very  metaphysical  to  a  China 
man,  but  it  sounds  foolish  in  English.  But,  anyhow,  he 
says  he  is  glad  action  is  over,  and  he  hopes  you  will  go  to 
your  own  place  among  the  mountains  and  contemplate. 
He  thinks  mountains  are  a  great  help,  because  the  position 
of  the  eyes — but  I  cannot  explain  about  the  position  of 
the  eyes.  Anyway,  he  says  mountains  are  good,  -and  he 
is  glad  you  are  going  to  the  mountains,  and  he  hopes  you 
will  do  nothing  but  contemplate.  I  cannot  explain" — he 
repeated — "  about  the  position  of  the  eyes,  and  the  proper 
attention  to  the  spine.  I  do  not  think  American  ladies  in 
corsets  can  do  it,  anyway.  He  gets  these  things  out  of 
very  old  books  most  people  do  not  read,  even  the  priests. 
He  is  a  very  learned  man.  But  he  pays  no  attention  at 
all  to  our  Saviour,  except  to  say,  like  Mohammedans  and 
Buddhists,  that  He  was  a  great  teacher.  That  is  a  Uni 
tarian  position,  and  very  unfortunate." 

The  humor  of  Quong,  for  the  first  time,  struck  Madge 
Lockerby  hard.  She  began  to  laugh,  low  and  not  un- 
338 


LOST  VALLEY 

musically.  "No,  I  guess  you  can't  explain.  I  don't 
believe  I  should  understand.  But  you  tell  him  that  1 
see  what  he  means  about  the  mountains.  Only  I'm  afraid 
you'll  have  to  tell  him,  too,  Mr.  Quong,  that  where  I  live 
you  can't  get  on  without  action.  If  I  go  back  home,  I'll 
have  to  work  pretty  hard,  round  the  house  and  the  farm. 
My  old  grandmother  is  helpless." 

She  waited,  her  lips  still  twitching  a  little,  while  Quong 
spoke  at  length,  and  Jee  Gam  very  briefly  and  serenely 
replied. 

"He  says  it  is  all  right  about  your  grandmother.  Of 
course  you  have  to  work  for  her.  You  see,  all  Chinese 
think  their  ancestors  very  important.  Even  Jee  Gam 
would  not  tell  you  not  to  work  for  your  grandmother." 

A  slight  bitterness  pointed  Madge's  lingering  smile.  "I 
guess  Jee  Gam's  saying  so  is  as  good  a  reason  as  I've  ever 
heard,"  she  answered  enigmatically.  "But  now  that  Lola 
doesn't  need  me,  perhaps  I'll  feel  differently.  I  wonder 
if  Jee  Gam  thinks  I  ought  to  stay  at  home  until  Granny 
and  Uncle  are  laid  in  their  graves,  and  the  farm  rots  to 
pieces,  and  then  I  have  to  make  my  way,  and  can't  get 
anything  to  do,  even  in  Siloam  or  Barker's  Creek,  because 
I'm  not  young  any  longer  and  never  learned  anything." 
She  did  not  expect  the  puzzled  young  Chinaman  to  trans 
late  this  to  the  oracle,  yet  she  wanted,  for  herself,  another 
word.  "Ask  him  if  I  have  no  right  to  go  away  from  home 
and  learn  how  to  support  myself,  so  that  when  I'm  too 
old  to  work,  I  won't  have  to  starve." 

She  waited  for  the  answer  with  an  eagerness  that  she 
herself  did  not  understand. 

"When  the  bonds  of  piety  are  loosed,"  Quong  trans 
lated  slowly,  "and  the  burden  of  one  holiness  is  set  down, 
the  burden  of  other  holinesses  becomes  lighter,  and  the 
way  becomes  more  possible  to  the  feet.  Toil  imposed  is 
sweeter  than  toil  chosen,  since  it  is  not  you" — he  was 

339 


LOST  VALLEY 

picking  his  way,  word  by  word,  and  Madge  bent  forward, 
lips  parted,  to  catch  each  slow  syllable — "who  have  cre 
ated  the  law  of  that  toil.  Therefore  that  toil  is  a  load 
upon  the  body  but  not  upon  the  spirit.  It  is  great  wrong 
to  create  a  new  toil  where  there  was  no  toil  before,  but 
to  take  on  yourself  the  duty  created  before  you  were  born 
of  your  mother,  is  sinless."  He  stopped,  as  if  exhausted, 
and  made  a  faint  gesture  with  his  hands.  "Do  you 
understand?" 

Madge  relaxed  with  a  sigh.  "Yes,"  she  answered  as 
tonishingly,  "I  do.  Tell  him  so." 

Quong  spoke  a  word  in  his  natural  tone,  and  the  old 
man  smiled. 

"Now  he  will  play  music."  And  Quong,  too,  relaxed, 
and  lighted  a  cigarette. 

Madge  sat  down  on  a  low  stool  beside  the  dulcimer. 
Even  more  than  the  music,  she  wanted  the  close  vision  of 
those  delicate  fingers,  the  marvel  of  that  blind  skill.  Half 
way  through  the  plaintive  ballad,  Desmond  Reilly  entered 
the  cellar.  The  sticks  hung  suspended  from  the  thin 
hands  for  a  second,  but  Madge  reassured  Jee  Gam  by  a 
murmur;  and  the  music,  hardly  interrupted,  swept  on  to 
its  wailing  finish. 

Jee  Gam  scarcely  waited  for  Reilly's  belated  salutation. 
With  a  preliminary  gesture,  almost  of  gayety,  he  broke 
into  something  wilder,  with  a  troubled,  provoking  rhythm 
— war  music  that  helped  your  swords  and  masks  to  terrify 
the  enemy.  Quong's  jaw  dropped.  This  was  a  departure 
from  convention:  something  remembered  doubtless, 
after  many  years,  out  of  a  lusty  youth  in  the  depths  of 
Jee  Gam's  remote  province,  when  action  was  not  despised. 
Quong  had  never  heard  it  anywhere,  but  he  knew  what  it 
must  be.  Those  rhythms  were  unmistakable.  He  felt 
them  all  down  his  spine.  He  shut  his  eyes,  swayed  back 
and  forth  in  quick  staccato  jerks,  responding  to  intima- 
340 


LOST  VALLEY 

tions  that  he  could  never  have  defined.  He  forgot  he  was 
a  student  at  Columbia.  Jee  Gam  played  on  inexplicably, 
and  Desmond  Reilly  rose  slowly  to  his  feet.  Where  had 
Jee  Gam  got  the  stuff?  It  was  worse  than  jazz,  for  there 
was  blood  in  it.  It  hit  his  nerves,  closer  to  the  surface 
than  Quong's,  intolerably.  In  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
using  his  stick  for  a  sword,  he  let  himself  go  bodily  with 
the  vibrations,  advancing,  retreating,  parrying,  lunging, 
counterfeiting  all  the  emotions  of  primitive  battle.  The 
play  was  easy  to  him;  he  breathed  hard  in  the  sheer 
pleasure  of  self-expression,  of  working  off  the  music  as  it 
attacked  him.  His  face  was  set;  his  eyes  glittered;  his 
hair,  in  the  lamplight,  showed  tawny  fire  at  the  edges. 
As  Quong,  beneath  those  barbaric  rhythms,  turned  ata- 
vistically  to  the  frightened  merchant  among  his  godowns, 
so  Reilly  remembered,  and  yet  did  not  remember,  the 
moonlit  ambush,  the  flintlock,  and  the  herded  cows. 
Madge,  with  appalled  and  fascinated  eyes,  wratched  his 
wild  improvisation:  the  dance  that  was  not  a  dance,  the 
fight  that  was  not  a  fight. 

The  music  ended  suddenly  on  a  high,  rough  chord. 
Reilly  dropped  into  a  chair,  and  Quong  opened  his  eyes. 
Jee  Gam's  face  changed.  Consciousness  came  back  into 
it.  He  wiped  his  forehead  with  his  silken  sleeve.  "  I  had 
forgotten,"  he  murmured,  turning  his  face  to  Quong. 
"For  years  I  had  forgotten.  Then  it  came,  to-night,  like 
a  marauder  who  has  broken  his  prison.  I  have  done 
grievous  shame  to  my  dulcimer.  I  think" — he  had  grown 
calm,  now,  and  the  subtle  lines  of  wisdom  had  returned  to 
his  face — "it  came  in  with  the  young  American  man. 
She  must  not  forget  my  good  words  because  I  have  played 
a  lie.  I  will  purify  the  dulcimer.  That  other — I  have 
already  forgotten." 

"He  apologizes  for  playing  war  music,"  explained 
Quong  between  his  teeth.  "He  did  not  know  he  remem- 

341 


LOST  VALLEY 

bered  it.  Now  he  will  play" — he  listened  to  the  first 
bars — "'The  Fifteen  Bunches  of  Flowers/  And  we  must 
all  forget.  Especially  you" — he  turned  to  Madge — "be 
cause  he  says  that  music  he  played  is  not  true." 

"True!"  exclaimed  Reilly.  "Do  you  suppose  if  it 
hadn't  been  true,  I'd  have  been  doing  a  war  dance  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor?  It's  true  as  sex — a  long  sight  truer. 
If  that's  the  spirit  in  which  you  people  fight,  Quong, 
why  haven't  you  given  Japan  what-for  long  since?" 

"Sh-sh!  He  wants  us  to  forget.  We  do  not  fight  like 
that  now.  We  make  treaties,  and  study  Western  medicine. 
We  civilize  ourselves.  It  was  very  old — and  provincial, 
I  think.  Perhaps  from  the  north.  I  never  heard  any 
thing  like  it  in  Canton." 

The  music,  one  bit  after  another  in  a  long,  loose  web, 
quieted  them  all,  and  led  them  on.  Madge  sat  by  Jee 
Gam  with  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  her  eyes  closed ;  Reilly 
brooded  in  a  corner;  and  Quong  retired  into  an  amber 
shell  of  impassivity.  But  at  last  the  hands  rested,  and  the 
sticks  were  laid  down. 

"I  must  say  good  night — good-by,"  Madge  murmured. 
She  would  have  liked  to  sit  there  safe,  forever,  she  thought; 
but  since  she  could  not,  it  was  better  to  go  now,  before 
her  mind  had  grown  too  numb.  She  rose.  The  old  man 
turned  his  face  inquiringly  toward  her. 

"She  says  good-by,"  Quong  announced. 

Jee  Gam  put  out  his  hand,  and  Madge,  kneeling  down, 
received  the  touch  on  her  forehead. 

"Tell  him  I  thank  him,"  she  whispered  to  the  young 
Chinaman. 

Slow,  sonorous  words  came  from  Jee  Gam's  lips.  Quong 
bowed  his  head  as  he  listened. 

"He  invoked  a  blessing  on  you,"  Quong  said  as  they 
rose.     "Very  old,  I  think.     I  have  heard  it  in  the  joss 
house.    You  say  it  for  some  one  going  on  a  journey." 
342 


LOST  VALLEY 

Madge  passed  her  fingers  very  softly  over  the  strings 
of  the  dulcimer,  then  gave  Quong  a  silent  handshake, 
drew  on  her  gloves,  and  passed  out  into  the  night,  Des 
mond  following  her. 

"It  seems  queer,"  she  said,  "that  you'll  be  able  to  go 
and  listen  to  Jee  Gam  whenever  you  like,  and  that  I'll 
never  see  him  again." 

"Oh,  you  will — you  must,"  he  answered,  but  his 
words  were  perfunctory.  He  did  not  see,  any  more  than 
she  did,  what  should  bring  her  back  to  Doyers  Street. 

"No.  That's  over,"  she  answered  quietly.  "I  don't 
know  what  life  may  bring,  but  I  don't  see  why  it  should 
ever  bring  Jee  Gam  again." 

"Were  you  going  straight  home?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  I'm  leaving  pretty  early  in  the  morning,  and 
it's  a  long  way  to  the  station." 

"I  wish  I  could  be  there  to  see  you  off.  But  as  I 
can't,  why  won't  you  come  in  here  to  the  Port  Arthur 
and  have  some  supper?" 

"Supper?  I've  had  two  already.  No,  thank  you, 
Mr.  Reilly,  I'd  better  go  home  and  go  to  bed." 

"As  you  like.  I  thought — since  I  have  to  say  good-by, 
too — it  would  be  pleasant  to  have  a  little  quiet  talk." 

She  stopped  an  instant,  as  if  the  invitation  tempted 
her.  Then  she  shook  her  head  and  moved  on.  "Nok 
I'd  better  not,  thank  you.  I'd  enjoy  it;  but — New 
York's  over.  I  guess  we'll  let  it  be  over.  I'd  hate  to 
get  fond  of  it." 

"Oh,  you'll  be  back  sometime." 

"I  don't  think  so.     Why  should  I  want  to  come  back?" 

"  To  see  your  friends.    Think  of  Jee  Gam."    He  laughed. 

"It's  queer.     I  hate  to  think  I'll  never  see  him  again, 

and  yet  I'm  willing.     Don't  you  think,  sometimes,  it's 

better  to  leave  a  thing  that's  just  right,  and  not  run  any 

risk  of  spoiling  it?     1  think  the  more  I  saw  of  Jee  Gam 

23  343 


LOST  VALLEY 

the  more  good  he'd  do  me,  and  yet  I  can  see  that  it's 
better  to  have  it  so.  Sometimes  seeing  people  again 
spoils  everything  that  went  before.  If  you  hadn't  seen 
them,  you  could  have  kept  it  as  it  was." 

She  was  thinking  of  Burton,  of  course!  Reilly  won 
dered  whether  she  was  including  him  as  well  in  her  law. 

"I  quite  agree.  Only  some  people  are  good  for  keeps. 
I  don't  think  the  greatest  happiness  comes  in  never 
sticking  to  anybody." 

"Oh,  nor  I,  either.  Only  about  Jee  Gam.  .  .  .  Well, 
he  couldn't  exactly  be  a  companion  for  always,  could 
he?  We're  too  different." 

"  No,  of  course,"  he  assented.  But  the  hovering  thought 
of  Arthur  Burton  brought  his  name  to  the  surface. 

"By  the  way,  I  couldn't  have  handed  that  money  to 
Burton,  even  if  I  had  been  willing  to  try.  He  has  tel 
egraphed  that  he  isn't  coming  back  to  New  York  until 
autumn.  He's  going  straight  out  West  in  a  few  days 
to  paint." 

"  Oh,  don't  worry  about  the  money,  thank  you.  I  sent 
it  to  Mr.  Lawrence  and  asked  him  to  see  that  Mr.  Burton 
got  it.  I  am  sure  I  can  depend  on  Mr.  Lawrence." 

"By  all  the  powers!  You're  a  clever  woman,"  he 
muttered.  Then  he  turned  to  look  at  her  face.  He 
very  much  wondered  if  there  was  humor  concealed  in 
her  speech.  A  little  smile,  half  visible  under  a  street 
lamp,  made  him  decide  that  there  was. 

"I  congratulate  you,"  he  said  fervently.  "You 
absolutely  spiked  my  guns.  I'm  very  angry  with  you, 
of  course"- — he  chuckled — "but,  on  my  word,  it  was 
clever  of  you.  Did  you  know  his  address?" 

"No,  I  didn't.  But  it's  easy  enough  to  find  the  address 
of  a  man  like  Mr.  Lawrence.  And  I  wrote  to  him  and 
explained.  I  like  Mr.  Lawrence  very  much." 

"Oh,  you  know  him,  then?" 
344 


LOST  VALLEY* 

"I  never  saw  him  but  once.  I  thought  he  was  splendid. 
Of  course  my  uncle's  always  known  him,  and  my  grand 
father  and  his  father  were  dear  friends." 

"Lost  Valley  is  a  wonderful  place,"  he  mused. 

Madge  turned.  "This  is  my  corner.  There's  no 
need  for  you  to  come  any  farther."  Then  her  voice 
deepened.  "Don't  you  get  hold  of  any  wrong  ideas 
about  Lost  Valley.  'Tisn't  wonderful.  It's  a  miserable 
place.  If  you  want  to  know  what  Lost  Valley  is  like, 
you  get  Mr.  Burton  to  show  you  the  picture  he  made  at 
the  Breens'  husking.  My  grandmother  is  in  it.  And 
some  other  folks  like  her." 

Desmond  Reilly  lifted  his  hat  to  say  good-by,  and 
stood  there  holding  it,  while  the  air  cooled  his  forehead. 

"It  has  done  some  extraordinary  things  in  its  day, 
anyhow,"  he  answered.  "It  has  produced  Lawrences 
and  Lockerbys  and  Burtons." 

Her  mouth  twisted  a  little.  "Yes,  and  Breens  and 
Finches  and  Leffingwells.  It's  better  to  look  at  Mr. 
Burton's  pictures  of  it  than  to  look  at  the  Valley  itself. 
Honestly,  it  is." 

"The  ones  he  painted  for  Lawrence  are  very  fine." 

"I've  got  one  he  gave  me  that  1  think  is  almost  as  good." 

"Ah,  I  should  like  to  see  it."  His  smile  was  almost 
teasing.  • 

She  seemed  to  consider  for  a  moment.  "I'd  almost 
say  I'd  give  it  to  you,  Mr.  Reilly,  but  I'm  afraid  it  wouldn't 
be  polite  to  Mr.  Burton.  He  made  me  promise  never 
to  sell  it.  Well,  of  course,  1  wouldn't  sell  it,  but  it  might 
be  as  bad  to  give  it  away." 

"Oh,  damn  him,  anyhow!"  exclaimed  Reilly.  "No, 
you  mustn't  give  it  away.  But  do  sell  it,  any  minute, 
if  you  feel  like  it." 

"Who  would  I  sell  it  to?"  she  asked  of  him,  as  she  had 
once  asked  of  Burton. 

345 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Not  me." 

"And,  anyway,  I  promised.  Of  course  I  wouldn't 
sell  it." 

"Did  Arthur  never  promise  anything?" 

Madge  had  been  looking  at  Desmond  directly  before, 
but  now  her  eyes  dilated  with  the  fixity  of  her  gaze. 
"No,  never,  to  me.  What  in  the  world" — she  turned 
away — "would  1  ever  have  asked  him  to  promise  me?" 

"Men  sometimes  promise  without  being  asked." 

"Very  likely  they  do.     But  not  Mr.  Burton,  I  guess." 

Desmond  laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Well, 
if  you  ever  feel  like  giving  me  Arthur's  picture,  I'll  be 
proud  to  have  it.  Arthur's  good  stuff — very." 

"I  only  wish" — her  voice  deepened  again — "I  could 
give  you  something,  you  have  been  so  kind  to  me.  But 
I'm  afraid  I  can't,  now." 

"Look  here,  Miss  Lockerby" — Desmond's  tone  and 
manner  changed — "of  course  you  can't  give  me  Arthur's 
picture.  I  was  only  joking.  And  I  should  very  much 
dislike  to  have  you  feel  that  you  owed  me  anything. 
I've  not  done  much,  but  the  little  I've  done  has  been  a 
pleasure.  If  you  won't  let  me  go  to  your  door  with  you 
— well,  then,  I  can't  keep  you  standing  here.  It's  good-by, 
isn't  it?" 

"Yes.  Everything's  good-by."  She  bit  her  Up. 
"After  saying  good-by  to  Lola,  I  oughtn't  to  mind.  I 
don't,  really."  She  put  her  hand  in  his.  "Thank  you. 
I  guess  that's  all  I  can  say." 

"I'll  look  in  on  Jee  Gam  sometimes,"  he  ventured. 

"Don't  you  make  any  promises,  Mr.  Reilly.  Hon 
estly,  I  don't  believe  in  promises.  They  take  you  awfully 
far — even  little  ones  like  that,  sometimes.  Good-by." 
She  withdrew  her  hand  suddenly  from  his,  and  stepped 
beyond  his  reach,  making  her  quick  way,  in  the  obscurity, 
to  her  tenement. 
346 


Book  IV 
THE  WAY  THAT  CAN  BE  WALKED  UPON 

CHAPTER  ONE 

EVERY  yard  of  the  way  from  Barker's  Creek  to 
Siloam  was,  for  Madge  Lockerby,  a  step  in  a  pain 
ful  processional.  Each  landmark  evoked  its  own  memory, 
less  of  a  past  scene  than  of  a  past  mood.  The  fields,  the 
farmhouses,  the  isolated  elm  in  a  pasture,  brought  back 
to  her,  as  a  vivid  scent  brings  back,  the  state  of  mind  in 
which  she  had  last  passed  that  way.  As  her  vision  had 
widened  on  the  Barker's  Creek  platform,  so  now,  in  the 
trolley  car  that  racketed  its  way  to  Siloam,  her  vision 
narrowed  again.  It  was  like  retracing  a  familiar  stream 
up  to  the  initial  trickle  of  its  source. 

Madge  stopped  a  moment  beyond  Nate  Joy's,  and 
looked  up  the  street.  To  her,  as  always  to  the  returned 
traveler,  it  was  passing  strange  that  Siloam  should  be 
there  unchanged;  stranger  yet  that  it  had  been  going  on, 
abounding  in  its  own  sense,  during  all  that  year.  Then 
she  shook  herself  free  of  the  trance,  for  Madge  Lockerby 
was  still  strong.  "I'm  different,  now,"  she  murmured  to 
herself;  "different."  She  closed  her  eyes  a  moment,  to 
focus  her  inward  vision  on  that  difference,  and  give  her 
self  courage  to  move,  head  high,  among  potent  familiar 
things.  In  that  instant  of  self-recognition,  of  self -empha 
sis,  she  had  decided  a  question  which  had  been  insistent 
for  twenty-four  hours.  She  would  not  see  Miss  Martin 

347 


LOST  VALLEY 

before  she  went  to  the  Valley.  She  would  submit  to  no 
advice,  to  no  attrition  of  this  new  self,  which  was  to  meet 
the  old  problems.  She  would  save  every  word  until  she 
was  face  to  face  with  Andrew  Lockerby. 

Madge  had  started  very  early  from  Boston.  It  was 
now  late  afternoon.  Some  of  her  faintness,  her  maze  of 
mind,  was  probably  due,  she  realized,  to  need  of  food. 
She  stepped  back  to  Nate  Joy's,  and  bought  some  sand 
wiches  and  a  bottle  of  root  beer.  Sitting  on  a  stone  wall, 
she  consumed  every  crumb,  every  drop.  She  felt  better, 
now;  and  she  slipped  up  the  street  in  search  of  Si  Mann. 

Until  Madge  was  well  out  of  Siloam,  she  kept  her  head 
down,  and  stared  fixedly  at  the  cotton  lap  robe  that  Si 
had  flung  over  them  both  against  the  dust.  It  would  be 
dreadful  if  she  should  see  Sarah  Martin — or  Mabel  Ben- 
ner,  even.  She  shut  her  eyes,  as  they  climbed  up  the 
hither  side  of  Roundtop  to  the  pass,  and  recalled,  by 
sternest  act  of  will,  Lola  lying  in  her  hospital  bed,  beyond 
all  pain.  Lola  was  safe,  in  heaven.  She  had  been  good; 
and  now  she  was  being  rewarded.  Madge  would  never 
have  to  fight  Lola's  battles  again,  single-handed  against 
a  prejudiced  and  cruel  world.  It  would  be  easier  work 
defending  Lola  dead  than  Lola  in  the  flesh;  since  what 
ever  the  outcome  of  such  battle,  Lola  had  nothing  to 
fear.  Even  if  she  couldn't  convince  people,  it  wouldn't 
hurt  Lola.  She,  Madge,  was  going  back  to  the  Valley — 
to  the  sordid  home,  to  Uncle  and  Granny.  Going  back, 
yes;  but  she  was  free  as  she  had  never  been  before.  She 
could  get  up  and  walk  out  of  that  house,  if  it  seemed  to 
her  best.  She  had  already  done  it  once.  And  now  that 
Lola  was  gone,  nothing  but  her  own  will  could  keep  her 
there. 

The  top  of  the  pass,  now.  Silas  stopped  to  breathe  the 
horses,  as  was  his  wont,  before  taking  the  downward  road. 
Madge  filled  her  lungs  with  the  inimitable  air:  a  different 
348 


LOST  VALLEY 

element  from  that  which  city  dwellers  breathed.  The 
Valley  lay  before  them,  in  all  the  beauty  of  the  hour 
before  sunset.  So  many  things  hurried  into  Madge's 
mind  that  she  was  spared  any  single,  driving  pang.  It 
was  ah1  a  blur  of  her  checkered  past,  a  dim  sense  upon  her 
of  incomprehensible  adventures,  almost  of  many  lives. 
Then  she  deliberately  set  her  eyes  upon  the  distant  lines 
of  her  own  home. 

"It's  very  green,"  she  said,  as  Si  took  up  the  reins 
again.  "You  must  have  had  plenty  of  rain." 

"Yes,  a  plenty.  A  little  too  much  for  some  folks. 
Makes  it  pleasant  now,  for  the  rest  of  us,  though." 

"Yes.    The  Valley's  a  lovely  place." 

"To  be  sure,  to  be  sure." 

Then,  since  Madge  herself  had  spoken,  he  ventured  on 
a  further  remark. 

"Too  bad  you  couldn't  get  here  sooner." 

"I  came  as  soon  as  I  could." 

He  nodded.     "Dessay  you  did." 

"How  is  Uncle?" 

"Well,  I  thought  when  I  see  him  last  Sunday,  he  wa'n't 
holding  out  any  too  well.  But  Andrew  don't  say  much, 
you  know.  P'raps  you'll  be  able  to  git  it  out  of  him.  He 
acted  to  me  like  a  man  with  symptoms.  But  with  summer 
coming  on,  he  may  do  better." 

There  were  a  dozen  things  Silas  would  have  liked  to 
say,  but  discretion  or  delicacy  silenced  every  one.  Madge, 
on  her  part,  had  said  everything  that  was  possible  without 
entering  upon  intimate  affairs  with  a  stranger.  Both  sat 
dumb  until  they  reached  the  gate  of  the  farmyard. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  wait  round  till  you  find  Andrew, 
Miss  Lockerby?"  Si  asked  when  Madge  had  dismounted 
and  withdrawn  her  bag  from  the  back  of  the  buckboard. 

"Oh,  no,  thank  you,  Mr.  Mann.  You'll  want  to  be 
getting  back.  I  wonder  if  you'd  do  something  for  me  in 

349 


LOST  VALLEY 

Siloam?  Just  tell  Miss  Martin  I'm  here.  I  wanted  to 
hurry  right  home,  so's  to  get  here  before  dark.  But  you 
tell  her,  please,  I'll  be  over  in  a  day  or  two,  to  see  her." 

"All  right.    Nothin'  else  you  want?" 

"No,  thank  you." 

Silas's  misgivings  were  somewhat  weakened  by  her 
calm  assurance.  Perhaps  Andrew  expected  her,  after  all. 
He  started  the  horses  off  at  a  smart  trot.  Madge  watched 
him  until  he  reached  the  bridge.  Then  she  turned  to  carry 
her  bag  to  the  house. 

The  living  room  was  empty.  So  was  the  kitchen. 
Granny  must  be  shut  in  her  own  room.  Madge's  heart 
sank  a  little.  She  would  not  try  that  door — not  until  she 
had  seen  her  uncle.  She  set  her  bag  inside  the  house  door, 
and  came  out  again  into  the  littered  yard.  It  was  just  the 
same.  She  could  almost  have  sworn  that  the  objects  were 
identical  with  those  she  had  abandoned  there,  that  early 
summer  morning  of  last  year.  She  saw  the  same  rust, 
the  same  refuse;  smelled,  it  seemed  to  her,  the  same  dung. 
This  would  not  do:  it  was  difference,  not  sameness,  she 
must  keep  in  mind. 

Probably  her  uncle  was  up  in  the  pasture,  or  out  in  the 
ten-acre  lot.  She  would  go  and  look  for  him;  exorcise, 
by  motion,  this  spirit  of  immutability  that  sought  to  catch 
her  mind.  The  Valley  should  never  hold  her  again  as  it 
had  held  her.  She  stepped  through  the  wide  gate  that 
led  to  the  pasture;  and  there  beyond  her,  looming  crook 
edly  against  the  sky,  was  Andrew  Lockerby,  descending 
the  slope.  Madge  waited  for  him. 

Andrew's  head  was  bent,  as  he  came  down  toward  her. 
He  did  not  lift  it  until  he  had  reached  the  gate  and  swung 
it  to.  Then  he  looked  up,  and  saw  his  niece.  They  were 
shut  into  the  yard  together. 

He  dropped  the  pail  he  was  carrying,  and  folded  his 
arms  as  he  stared  at  her.  A  thick  flush  made  his  rough 
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LOST  VALLEY 

features  still  more  forbidding.  Madge  shrank  back  a 
little,  from  this  crude,  implacable  figure  before  her.  He 
did  not  even  speak:  simply  stared  at  her  with  an  expres 
sion  too  dark  and  heavy  for  a  sneer. 

Finally  Madge  tossed  her  head  back.  It  was  a  gesture 
neither  of  pride  nor  of  anger;  the  sign,  merely,  of  a  free 
spirit  that  would  not  be  cowed  into  unnatural  dealing. 

"I've  come  back,  Uncle  Andrew." 

He  shot  his  head  forward  like  a  menacing  bull.  It 
brought  his  face  nearer.  He  looked  almost  like  a  dwarf, 
his  head  lowered,  his  body  stooping  to  one  side  to  protect 
his  lame  leg.  She  saw  suddenly  that  Andrew,  too,  was 
different. 

"Comeback?    What  for?" 

"Why — to  do  for  you — the  way  I  always  did.  Lola's 
dead.  I  thought  you'd  know." 

"How  did  you  think  I'd  know?" 

"I've  been  too  busy  to  write  much.  But  Miss  Martin 
knew.  I  thought  she'd  tell  you." 

"I  sent  her  off  once  with  a  flea  in  her  ear,  and  she 
'ain't  been  back  since.  I  guess  she  made  out  from  what  I 
said  then  that  Lola  was  no  concern  of  mine.  It  makes  no 
difference  to  me  whether  Lola's  living  or  dead." 

"I'm  sorry  you  feel  that  way  about  her."  In  Lola's 
behalf,  Madge  could  still  speak  with  a  note  of  disdain. 
"Anyhow — she  is  dead:  almost  two  weeks  ago.  And  I 
came  back  as  soon  as  I  could." 

"You  needn't  have  hurried  yourself  on  my  account." 
His  thick  truculence  did  not  abate. 

"I  certainly  didn't  hurry  for  my  own  pleasure.  I 
hurried  because  I  knew  Granny  would  need  me,  if  you 
didn't." 

"Pretty  late  in  the  day,  Madge,  for  you  to  be  realizing 
your  grandmother  needed  you.  She  did  need  you — she 
needed  you  a  sight  more  than  that  brat  who  ran  away 

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LOST  VALLEY 

from  you."  His  voice  shook — with  something  not  simply 
anger,  but  in  which  anger  was  heavily  mingled. 

"I  had  to  do  my  duty  as  I  saw  it.  There  wasn't  anyone 
but  me  to  look  after  poor  Lola.  There  never  has  been. 
Well:  that's  over.  Now  I'm  back.  I  know  you've  never 
forgiven  me  for  going  .  .  .  you  hated  Lola.  But  now  I'm 
here,  I'm  ready  to  do  what  I  can."  Then  she  tried  to 
speak  more  naturally,  to  bridge  the  dark  gulf  with  homely 
everyday  speech.  "What  about  supper?  And — I  see 
the  room's  empty,  and  Granny's  door  is  shut.  Is  she  hav 
ing  a  bad  spell?" 

"Bad  spell?"  Andrew  started  to  laugh  harshly.  Then 
he  sobered.  "No,  she's  having  no  bad  spell." 

The  words  were  a  relief  to  Madge.  She  had  hated  to 
face  the  worst  of  Lost  Valley  at  once.  She  turned  toward 
the  house.  "I'll  go  in  and  carry  my  bag  up,"  she  said; 
"then  I'll  come  down  and  set  to  work." 

Andrew  stretched  out  a  shaking  fist.  "You  won't 
carry  any  bag  of  yours  into  my  house !  As  for  your  grand 
mother — since  none  of  your  friends  have  taken  the  trouble 
to  tell  you,  I'll  tell  you!  She  was  buried  last  Sunday, 
Madge  Lockerby — buried  while  you  were  primping  up, 
in  some  gay  place,  with  your  fine  new  clothes.  I  don't 
know  who  was  responsible  for  Lola's  death,  but  I  know 
that  you  killed  your  grandmother  as  sure  as  if  you'd  lifted 
your  hand  against  her.  My  house  is  no  place  for  the  girl 
that  killed  my  mother.  You  can  pack  yourself  off  any 
where  you  please.  I'm  done  with  you." 

Madge  leaned  back  against  the  frail,  rickety  fence. 
The  blood  was  gone  from  her  very  lips. 

"Granny  dead!"  She  could  not  believe  it.  The  whole 
Valley  was  changed :  it  was  not  only  she,  Madge,  who  was 
different.  Granny  dead!  Sheer  emotion,  to  which  she 
could  not  have  given  a  name,  began  to  shake  her.  She 
cried,  almost  hysterically.  Could  she  never  plan?  Could 
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LOST  VALLEY 

she  never  do  her  duty?  Must  she  always  be  tossed,  and 
sported  with,  like  a  rag  in  the  wind?  "I — Fm  sorry.  I'm 
sorry,"  she  gasped.  Sorry  for  the  whole  pity  of  life,  was 
what  she  meant;  but  to  Andrew  it  was  the  last  weakness, 
the  last  hypocrisy. 

"Dead — along  of  you.  You  needn't  snivel  to  me. 
Mighty  much,  you're  sorry!  You  never  loved  her;  you 
grudged  everything  you  did  for  her — my  mother!"  He 
turned  away. 

"I  didn't!  I  didn't!  Only  it  was  hard.  You've  no 
right  to  say  I  killed  her.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean. 
I  think  you're  crazed  by  everything." 

"'Twouldn't  be  much  wonder  if  I  was!  But  I  ain't. 
If  I  lay  the  blame  on  your  shoulders,  it's  because  it  belongs 
there.  Listen  here !  You  left  your  home  without  a  word. 
Who  did  you  think  was  going  to  carry  on  things  here? 
Me,  of  course.  Me,  lame,  working  early  and  late  on  the 
farm  to  scratch  a  living  out  of  it.  And  I've  stood  up  to 
it  as  best  I  could.  You  knew  how  much  good  the  neigh 
bors  would  be.  All  fall,  all  winter,  all  spring,  I've  done 
more  than  a  man  could  do.  And  when  she  tottered  out 
of  her  room  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  fell  in  the 
woodshed,  I  was  too  tuckered  out  and  dead  with  sleep  to 
hear  her.  She  stayed  there  till  morning,  and  when  I 
found  her,  her  head  was  a  mass  of  blood.  And  every  drop 
of  that  blood  is  on  your  conscience — or  if  it  ain't,  it  ought 
to  be!" 

Madge  clutched  the  rail  of  the  fence  behind  her.  She 
must  deal  with  this  now,  or  her  own  brain  would  swerve 
ever  so  little,  and  she  would  be  lost  forever.  Was  she  a 
murderer?  If  she  was  not,  she  must  declare  it  now,  for 
all  time:  brace  her  whole  being  to  denial.  She  thought, 
for  one  terrible  moment,  of  the  sequences  of  things.  If 
she  accepted  this  charge  upon  her  spirit,  she  was  done 
for.  Was  it  true?  Must  she?  She  bowed  her  head, 

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LOST  VALLEY 

thinking  with  fierce  concentration,  boring  into  the  logic 
of  events. 

In  a  moment  she  raised  her  head,  to  face  Andrew.  "I 
don't  believe  that's  true,"  she  said  slowly.  "I  don't 
care  about  your  being  angry  and  hating  me — I  only  want 
to  know  if  what  you  say  is  true.  I  don't  believe  it  is. 
Lola  was  murdered  by  an  Italian.  If  you  had  cared 
about  Lola,  you  might  say  I  killed  her  because  I  fetched 
her  to  see  the  monkey,  and  if  she  hadn't  followed  the 
monkey,  she  never  would  have  been  stabbed,  trying  to 
save  its  life.  But  it  wouldn't  be  true  that  I  murdered 
Lola.  You  might  as  well  say  it  was  my  father's  fault 
about  Granny.  If  there  hadn't  been  any  Lola,  I  wouldn't 
have  gone  away.  Or  my  grandfather's  fault.  If  Granny 
hadn't  had  so  much  trouble  and  such  a  hard  life,  perhaps 
she  wouldn't  have  been  childish.  Or  her  parents'  fault, 
perhaps — I  don't  know.  If  you're  going  to  take  things 
that  way,  you've  got  to  go  back  and  back,  farther  and 
farther  all  the  time,  to  find  whose  fault  it  is."  She  stopped 
a  moment,  then  went  on,  speaking  more  rapidly.  "I 
couldn't  do  two  things.  I  couldn't  hunt  for  Lola  and  stay 
at  home.  I  thought  I  had  to  hunt  for  Lola.  But" — she 
looked  up  with  sudden  wildness — "if  I  had  stayed  at  home 
with  Lola  out  in  the  world  helpless,  I'd  have  lost  my  mind 
— and  then  whose  fault  would  it  have  been  that  Granny  fell? 
You're  wrong,  you're  wrong  to  say  I  killed  her.  I  didn't ! " 

"You  can  argue  as  much  as  you  please,  Madge,"  her 
uncle  replied.  His  roughness  startled  her  afresh  after  his 
long  silence.  "But  you  can't  argue  here,  with  me.  My 
house  is  no  home  of  yours.  When  you  flung  it  away,  you 
flung  it  away  for  good,  as  far  as  I'm  concerned.  You  made 
your  bed,  and  you  can  lie  in  it." 

"But,  Uncle" — she  put  out  a  hand  toward  him — 
"who'll  do  for  you  now?  That's  what  I  came  for." 

Andrew  laughed  coarsely.  "The  undertaker  '11  do  for 
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LOST  VALLEY 

me  sometime  along.    I  won't  trouble  you  while  Fm  wait 
ing  for  him." 

"You  mean,  Uncle  Andrew,  that  you  won't  let  me  into 
my  own  home?" 

"It  isn't  your  home.  It's  mine.  You  haven't  got  a 
shadow  of  a  claim  if  I  say  no." 

Pride  came  at  last  to  help  her.  "All  right,"  she  replied 
coldly.  "It's  as  you  say,  Uncle  Andrew.  I'll  never 
darken  your  door  again,  until  you  ask  me.  I  shall  have  to 
get  my  bag.  I  put  it  inside." 

Andrew  Locker  by  raised  his  hand.  "Don't  you  go. 
I'll  get  it."  He  limped  over  to  the  house,  stepped  inside, 
and  lifted  out  the  bag. 

"There  it  is!"  He  kicked  it  into  the  yard  and  shut  the 
door  behind  him.  Madge  heard  the  key  turn. 

She  took  the  bag,  and  left  the  place  without  a  backward 
glance.  Outside  in  the  road,  she  stood  uncertain  for  a 
moment.  It  would  be  dark  before  she  could  get  to  Siloam. 
Still,  there  was  no  place  in  the  Valley  where,  in  the  cir 
cumstances,  she  could  ask  shelter.  Even  her  youth  and 
strength  had  lapsed  to  a  terrible  bodily  weariness.  She 
had  been  tired  when  she  reached  the  Valley,  and  she  was 
weakened  all  through  by  the  last  hour.  Perhaps  she  could 
get  to  the  top  of  the  pass  and  sleep  in  the  woods.  With  a 
sudden  spurt  of  resolve,  she  walked  on  to  the  bridge. 
There  she  found  she  had  to  rest.  She  could  hardly  make 
the  top  of  the  pass,  she  feared. 

Madge  sat  leaning  against  the  bridge  in  a  half  col 
lapse,  waiting  for  strength  to  wander  on  again.  In  a  few 
moments,  she  heard  horses'  feet,  and  roused  herself  hope 
fully.  A  wagon  was  coming  down  the  loop  of  the  Valley 
road — from  Breens'  side.  She  left  her  bag  by  the  bridge 
and  ran  out,  waving  her  arms  to  stop  it.  The  wagon, 
thus  challenged,  pulled  up  short.  It  was  the  Breens,  as 
she  had  feared;  but  never  mind. 

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LOST  VALLEY 

"By  God!  it's  Madge  Lockerby!"  Bert  stared  down 
at  her,  and  his  wife  craned  her  neck  silently,  her  eyes 
glittering. 

"Are  you  going  to  Siloam?" 

"Sure.    Over  to  the  movies  for  a  little  treat." 

"I  wonder  if  you  would  take  me  over  there.  I  don't 
think  I  can  walk." 

Mrs.  Breen  bent  forward.  "I  do  declare,  Madge  Lock 
erby,  you're  a  good  deal  of  a  stranger.  Got  here  too  late 
for  the  funeral,  did  you?  " 

The  woman  was  as  evil  as  ever,  Madge  thought;  but 
the  refuse  of  cities  could  match  her.  She  was  not  afraid 
of  Moll  Breen  now. 

"  I  never  knew  Granny  was  dead  till  Uncle  Andrew  just 
told  me."  She  looked  Mrs.  Breen  straight  in  the  eyes. 
It  was  with  her  she  must  deal.  "I'll  tell  you  frankly, 
Mrs.  Breen,  that  my  uncle  has  never  forgiven  me  for 
going  off  to  look  for  Lola.  It  took  me  all  this  time  to  find 
her,  and  now  she's  dead.  I  came  home  as  quick  as  I  could, 
but  Uncle  doesn't  want  me,  because  he's  still  angry  with 
me.  So  I've  got  to  go  away.  If  you  and  your  husband 
would  give  me  a  lift  over  to  Siloam,  I'd  be  very  much 
obliged.  I've  been  traveling  for  two  days,  and  I  haven't 
got  the  strength  to  walk  over  there  with  my  bag  to-night." 

"It's  a  new  thing  to  have  you  asking  favors  of  us,  ain't 
it,  Bert?"  The  woman  laughed.  "Last  time  I  saw  you, 
your  tongue  was  wagging  another  way." 

Madge  flushed.  "I  was  in  great  trouble,  the  last  time 
I  saw  you.  It's  no  pleasure  to  me  to  ask  a  favor  of  you, 
but  I'm  forced  to  do  it.  Now  that  Lola's  dead,  and  I'm 
going  away,  all  that — last  year — doesn't  matter  much, 
does  it?" 

"Oh,  you  get  in,  Madge."  *  Bert  spoke.  "We'll  let 
bygones  be  bygones,  's  far  's  I'm  concerned." 

Moll  Breen  frowned,  but  her  husband  went  on.  "Oh, 
356 


LOST  VALLEY 

cut  it  out,  Moll!  It's  enough  for  me  that  a  proud  piece 
like  that  is  willing  to  ask  a  favor.  Sorry  you're  leaving 
so  soon,  Madge.  But  you  do  look  too  stylish  for  us,  that's 
a  fact."  He  laughed.  "Where's  your  bag?  I'll  get  it." 

Riding  bodkin  between  Bert  and  Moll  Breen,  Madge 
felt  that  all  her  adventuring  had  never  brought  her  so 
low.  She  had  to  come  back  to  Lost  Valley,  she  told  her 
self  with  tired  bitterness,  to  be  forced  to  a  contact  like 
this — and,  what  was  more,  beg  for  it. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

MADGE  opened  her  eyes  at  some  vague  hint  of  noise, 
and  noticed  the  hem  of  a  skirt  disappearing  round 
the  edge  of  the  half -closed  door.  Then  she  saw  a  tray  on 
the  table  at  the  foot  of  her  bed.  Dishes,  food,  coffee.  Be 
fore  she  had  quite  roused  herself,  she  heard  the  front  door 
smartly  shut.  She  stretched  herself  pleasantly  between 
the  spotless  sheets.  Their  ancient  softness  soothed  her 
body,  and  the  scent  of  them  was  peace.  She  liked  looking 
out  between  the  high  bedposts  at  the  ancient  room, 
where  the  chintz  of  a  grandmother's  bridal  outfit  had 
faded  into  pastel  tints.  In  Sarah's  best  bedroom  every 
thing  was  time-softened,  and  the  morning  sun  cheered  it 
into  gayety  without  revealing  a  grimy  inch,  a  grain  of 
dust.  Madge  thought  she  liked  it  better  than  any  room 
she  had  ever  seen  in  her  life.  She  could  have  rested  there 
indefinitely,  staring. 

Presently,  however,  she  sprang  up,  wrapped  a  cheap 
kimono  about  her,  and  sat  down  to  drink  her  coffee  by  a 
white,  deep-cased  window.  For  the  first  time,  almost,  in 
her  life,  the  morning  held  no  urgent  task.  Slowly,  luxuri 
ously,  she  bathed  and  put  on  her  underclothes,  then  sat 
down  and  manicured  her  nails  carefully  with  a  little  travel 
ing  outfit  she  had  bought  in  New  York.  She  must  wash 
the  dishes  later,  but  that  was  probably  the  only  thing  in 
the  world  that  Sarah  had  left  for  her  to  do.  What  should 
she  wear?  The  serge  dress  she  had  traveled  in  was  too 
heavy  for  the  1st  of  June.  She  put  on  the  dark-blue  voile, 
adjusted  her  collar,  and  finally — after  long  meditation — 
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LOST  VALLEY 

donned  her  pumps.  Then  she  arranged  a  net  over  her 
hair,  and  hung  her  jade  ornament  about  her  neck  on  its 
slender  cord. 

Madge  had  many  hours  of  solitude  and  inaction  before 
her.  It  would  be  late  afternoon  before  she  could  really 
talk  to  Miss  Martin.  Last  night  she  had  only  gasped  out 
the  story  of  her  uncle,  and  stumbled  into  bed.  She  could 
not  sit  and  read,  and  she  longed  for  the  outer  air.  Shrink 
as  she  might  from  Siloam  Street,  she  would  rather  en 
counter  the  people  outside  than  the  silence  of  the  house, 
and  her  own  form  suddenly  facing  her  from  dark  corners 
where  old  mirrors  hung.  She  must  walk,  she  must  feel 
the  unimpeded  sun  upon  her,  she  must  breathe  air  that 
was  not  sifted  through  a  fly  screen. 

Madge  went  up  to  her  room  and  put  on  her  hat,  which 
she  had  brushed  until  it  was  speckless.  She  hesitated  a 
moment  over  the  gloves.  No,  she  would  not  take  them. 
It  might  seem,  just  for  a  walk,  affected.  She  even  rejected 
the  beaded  bag,  and  carried  her  shabby  purse  in  her  hand. 
Now  no  one  would  notice  her,  particularly.  Madge  did 
not  realize  how  well  Division  Street  had  done  its  work, 
or  how  reluctantly  Siloam  selected  its  stockings  to  match 
its  shoes.  The  fact  was  that  the  figure  which  passed  mus 
ter  in  a  New  York  crowd  was  bound  to  do  something 
more  than  that  in  Siloam  Main  Street.  If  she  held  her 
self  uncommonly  well,  it  was  because,  so  far  as  she  knew, 
she  was  despised  and  rejected  by  everyone  who  counted, 
for  her.  But  there  is  no  doubt  that  some  of  the  people 
who  eyed  her  as  she  passed,  read  her  attitude  differently. 

She  decided  to  face  Benner's  store.  She  needed  cheap 
summer  dresses.  She  could  make  them  herself  with  a 
pattern,  and  she  must  buy  material.  It  would  be  good 
for  her  to  have  some  sewing;  and  whatever  work  she 
found  to  do  she  would  need  wash-dresses  for. 

Mrs.  Benner  did  not  recognize  her  at  first.  She  thought, 
24  359 


LOST  VALLEY 

as  she  hurried  down  behind  the  counter,  it  was  a  summer 
boarder  alighted  from  an  automobile.  Her  thin  face 
turned  pink  when  she  realized  that  it  was  the  Lockerby 
girl.  Mrs.  Benner  half  held  out  her  hand  in  greeting, 
then  drew  it  back.  She  really  did  not  know  the  right 
shade  of  greeting. 

"I  declare,  Miss  Lockerby.  I  didn't  recognize  you. 
We  haven't  seen  you  for  quite  a  spell,  and  I  b'lieve  you've 
altered  some." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  had.  I've  been  away  almost 
a  year." 

Mrs.  Benner's  small  gray  eyes  were  restless  by  habit. 
Their  fluttering  motion  abated  nothing  of  their  keenness, 
and  it  is  probable  that  she  took  in  more,  with  her  visual 
dartings  and  swoopings,  than  she  could  have  done  in  a 
steady  stare.  The  trimming  of  Madge's  hat,  the  cut 
of  her  dress,  the  filet  collar,  the  manicured  nails,  the  net 
over  the  hair,  were  all  registered  before  Madge  declared 
her  errand. 

"I  want  to  see  some  gingham,  or  calico — something 
to  make  house  dresses  out  of.  And  I  suppose  you've 
got  patterns  too,  haven't  you?" 

"Certainly.  We  have  a  very  fine  new  line  of  cotton 
voiles,  Miss  Lockerby,  if  you  want  something  a  little 
dressier  for  mornings  than  a  gingham." 

"No."  Madge  smiled,  in  spite  of  herself.  She  mustr 
be  different,  or  the  arbitress  of  Benner's  would  not  be 
suggesting  "dressy"  goods  to  her.  "I  want  things  to 
work  round  the  house  in — well,  something  I  could  go 
outdoors  in,  too,  of  course.  But  nothing  dressy." 

"There's  nothing  better  than  good  gingham.  They 
make  them  up  awful  pretty  now,  too.  The  summer  folks 
wear  them  a  lot.  You  take  a  chip  hat  and  white  shoes 
and  a  pretty  gingham,  and  the  girls  look  awful  nice,  I 
think." 
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LOST  VALLEY 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.  But  I  don't  care  about  looks.  I 
just  want  something  practical.  The  kind  of  thing  women 
wear  right  here  in  Siloam  to  do  their  work  in." 

Mrs.  Benner  took  down  the  bolts  of  material  and  dis 
played  them.  "  You've  got  so  much  color,  Miss  Lockerby, 
you  c'n  wear  'most  anything.  But  you're  young.  I'd 
have  somethin'  pretty,  if  I  was  you.  You  goin'  to  stay 
in  Siloam  awhile,  are  you?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  haven't  any  plans.  I  just  got  here 
yesterday.  I'm  at  Miss  Martin's  now.  I  guess  I'm  likely 
to  be  here  for  a  while."  Let  anyone  who  would  tell  Mrs. 
Beiiner  the  facts  of  the  case.  She  could  not  bring  herself 
to  reward  the  avidity  of  those  restless  eyes. 

She  selected  a  pattern  quickly,  then  saw  the  material 
measured  and  cut  off.  As  Mrs.  Benner  came  out  from 
behind  the  counter  to  go  to  the  cash  drawer,  she  saw  the 
cut  of  Madge's  skirt;  also  the  pumps  and  the  stockings 
that  matched.  Madge's  whole  figure  was  more  impressive 
than  the  half  she  had  seen  above  the  counter. 

"I  hope  you'll  like  your  m'terial.  We  get  everything 
from  Boston  nowadays." 

"Oh,  yes.  It  seems  to  me  very  nice.  I  haven't  made 
any  clothes  for  a  good  while.  It's  easier,  in  New  York,  to 
just  go  in  and  buy  ready-made." 

"Yes,  I  s'pose  so.  Excuse  me,  Miss  Lockerby,  but 
would  you  mind  tellin'  me  if  that  collar  is  real  filet?  They 
make  such  good  imitations  now." 

Madge  was  amused,  in  spite  of  herself.  She  recalled 
the  bargaining  in  the  store,  the  passionate,  thick  assevera 
tions  of  the  oily  salesman. 

"I  bought  it  for  real,  Mrs.  Benner.  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  don't  know  much  about  lace.  But  my  friend  who 
was  shopping  with  me"  (she  remembered  Violet's  nose 
bent  over  the  meshes,  searching  the  lace  as  if  by  smell) 
"said  it  was.  Thank  you  ever  so  much  for  your  trouble." 

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LOST  VALLEY 

She  departed  from  Benner's,  not  knowing  that  the  faint 
perfume  of  her  scented  soap  trailed  behind  her,  completing 
Mrs.  Benner's  impression  of  something  high  and  mighty. 
Madge  had  come  to  scented  soap  as  a  defense  against 
Mulberry  Street,  but  Mrs.  Benner  did  not  know  that. 
Indeed,  she  suspected  sachets  concealed  in  delicate  under 
clothing  (according  to  the  displays  on  Tremont  Street) — 
refinements  of  which  Madge  was  quite  innocent.  Madge 
Lockerby  was  all  dolled  up,  and  proud  as  a  peacock, 
according  to  Tom  Benner's  wife.  A  Lost  Valley  Lockerby 
— looking  like  that!  They  said  Andrew  was  more  of  a 
scarecrow  than  ever.  And  she  happened  to  know  there 
was  something  due  still  on  the  mowing  machine.  At 
the  same  time,  she  was  dying  to  ask  Madge  to  let 
her  copy  her  hat.  She  let  the  counters  look  after  them 
selves  while  she  rushed  into  her  own  house  to  tell  Mabel 
about  it. 

By  the  time  "tea"  was  cleared  away,  and  bread  was 
mixed  and  set  to  rise,  the  cool  twilight  enfolded  the  two 
women,  and  Sarah  bestirred  herself  to  light  the  lamps. 

"It's  so  lovely,  why  have  a  light?"  Madge  protested. 

"Nonsense!  I  can't  talk  properly  without  seeing.  I've 
hardly  had  a  chance  to  take  you  in  yet,  Madge." 

So  Madge  was  displayed  in  the  soft  lamplight,  to  Sarah's 
keen  eyes. 

"First  off,  Miss  Martin,  I  want  to  know  if  there's  any 
kind  of  work  I  can  get,  here  in  Siloam." 

"Work?    What  sort?" 

"Any  sort — so  I  can  earn  my  living,  and  begin  to  save 
up  money  to  pay  you  back  with." 

"I  don't  want  you  should  worry  about  that.  I've  had 
nothing  to  do  for  twenty  years  but  put  money  in  the  sav 
ings  bank  over  in  Barker's  Creek.  I  don't  mean  to  say 
I'm  rich,  but  I  wouldn't  starve  if  you  never  paid  it.  Of 
course  I  know  you  want  to,  and  that's  quite  right;  but 


LOST  VALLEY 

there's  no  hurry.  It's  more  important  you  should  find 
the  right  career  for  yourself  than  to  get  that  money  back 
into  the  savings  bank  right  off." 

"Career?  That  does  sound  funny,  when  you  say  it 
about  me,  Miss  Martin." 

"No  reason  why.    You're  only  twenty-one,  are  you?" 

"Going  on  twenty-two." 

"  Well,  then,  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  fit  yourself 
for  some  good  position." 

Madge  shook  her  head.  "I  can't  do  that  yet,  Miss 
Martin.  Uncle  might  need  me,  any  minute." 

"You  don't  have  to  sit  idle  while  you're  waiting,  do 
you?" 

"I  don't  want  to  sit  idle!  I  wrant  to  go  right  to  work. 
I  told  you  so." 

"Sh!  That  isn't  what  I  meant.  What  I  mean  is: 
there's  no  work,  in  summer,  in  Siloam,  that  would  be  any 
help  to  you  in  the  future.  And  you  can't  educate  yourself 
for  a  position,  in  Siloam,  either.  I  want  you  should  stay 
here  with  me  for  a  while  and  get  rested  up.  Then  you 
can  go  away  and  get  some  training — depending  on  what 
you  want  to  do." 

"No."  Madge  shook  her  head  again.  "Not  as  long  as 
Uncle  Andrew  lives.  I've  got  to  be  near  enough  so  I 
could  go  to  him  at  a  moment's  notice." 

Miss  Martin  took  off  her  glasses,  breathed  on  them, 
wiped  them,  and  set  them  astride  her  nose  again.  Then 
she  coughed. 

"Now  look  here,  Madge.  Let's  talk  plainly.  We 
won't  discuss  the  wisdom  of  your  going  off  last  year  on 
that  wild-goose  chase  after  Lola.  That  was  between  you 
and  your  conscience.  I  didn't  offer  you  any  advice,  and 
I  make  no  comments  now.  Lola's  gone,  and  it's  all  over. 
No  sense  in  discussing  it.  What  we've  got  to  deal  with  is 
the  future.  You  couldn't  take  back  your  actions  if  you 

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LOST  VALLEY 

tried.  I  don't  suppose  you  want  to,  and  I  don't  say  you 
ought  to  want  to.  The  point  is,  you  can't. 

"Well,  here  you  are.  You  went  back  to  the  Valley, 
and  Andrew  Lockerby  turned  you  out,  neck  and  crop. 
He  had  his  chance  to  make  it  up  with  you  and  get  you  to 
tend  him  for  the  rest  of  his  days,  and  he  threw  it  away  of 
his  own  free  will.  He's  turned  his  back  on  you  for  good 
and  all.  There's  no  sense  sitting  round  with  folded  hands, 
waiting  for  him  to  change  his  mind — even  if  he  were  likely 
to  do  so." 

Madge  shook  her  head  once  more.  "I  don't  seem  to 
see  it  that  way,  Miss  Martin.  Uncle  did  say  dreadful 
things  to  me.  Of  course  I  had  to  come  away.  But  you 
know,  after  all,  I'm  sorry  for  Uncle.  He's  had  an  awfully 
hard  row  to  hoe.  I  think  he's  unjust,  but  I  don't  know  as 
I  wonder  at  his  being  bitter." 

"Humph!  You've  come  to  that,  have  you?  Well,  if 
it  '11  make  you  feel  any  better,  Madge,  I'll  tell  you  that, 
little  as  I  like  Andrew  Lockerby,  I  was  mighty  sorry  for 
him  last  year,  after  you  went  away.  I'm  not  judging  your 
uncle.  That's  for  his  Maker.  But  I  do  say  that  you  can't 
go  back  of  your  uncle's  actions.  He's  turned  you  out, 
and  that  makes  you  square  with  him.  It  looks  to  me, 
Madge,  as  though  you  were  quit  of  Lost  Valley  at  last. 
And  so  long  as  it's  come  about  in  a  right  way,  I  don't 
regret  it." 

"No."  Madge  crossed  her  feet  on  the  rug  and  looked 
at  them  intently.  "It  isn't  so  easy  as  that  to  get  rid  of 
the  Valley.  I  wish  it  weren't  so;  but  twist  it  round  as 
you  please,  it  seems  to  me  Uncle's  still  got  a  claim.  You 
see,  your  grandmother  has  a  right,  after  all  ...  and  just 
because  I  had  to  neglect  her  and  put  my  share  off  on 
Uncle,  her  rights  are  sort  of  passed  on  to  him.  I  don't 
know  as  I  can  explain  myself.  I  don't  owe  Uncle  so 
much,  perhaps — I  don't  know.  But  when  he  paid  what  I 
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LOST  VALLEY 

did  owe  Granny,  I  do  owe  him  what  I  owed  her.    I  guess  I 
don't  make  it  very  plain." 

"  I  guess  you  don't.  It  sounds  to  me  rather  sentimental. 
I  always  knew  you  were  sentimental  about  Lola,  but  I 
never  knew  you  were  sentimental  about  your  grand 
mother." 

"I'm  not.  I'm  afraid  I  never  did  love  her,  Miss  Martin. 
She  may  have  been  all  right  when  I  was  a  baby,  but  she 
was  always  a  trial  ever  since  I  can  remember.  There 
wasn't  much  love  lost  at  home.  I  loved  Lola,  and  Uncle 
loved  Granny,  and  they're  both  dead.  Uncle  never  did 
love  me  or  I  him.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  don't  believe  there's 
anybody  left  on  earth- either  one  of  us  does  love — now." 
She  smiled  mysteriously. 

"  Humph ! "  Sarah  Martin  was  not  offended  by  Madge's 
refusal  to  declare  affection  for  her.  She  knew  by  this 
time  that  she  loved  Madge  Lockerby,  but  she  demanded 
no  return  in  kind.  It  wasn't  to  be  expected,  anyhow, 
that  grown  women  should  say  they  loved  each  other — 
unless  to  ease  a  deathbed. 

"You're  all  tired  out.  You'll  find  plenty  of  people  to 
'love,'  as  you  call  it,  when  you  get  over  this." 

"I  dare  say  you'll  think  it's  strange,  Miss  Martin,  but 
I'm  actually  homesick  for  Lost  Valley.  I  don't  mean  I 
want  to  spend  the  rest  of  my  life  there;  I  don't  mean  I 
didn't  dread  awfully  to  go  home.  It  wasn't  an  easy  life, 
ever — with  Granny,  and  Uncle.  But  cities  aren't  any  too 
pleasant,  either,  if  you're  poor  and  in  trouble.  If  Uncle 
would  be  kind,  I  don't  know  as  there's  anything  in  the 
world  I'd  rather  do,  for  a  while,  than  go  back  and  live 
where  I  can  see  Roundtop  and  the  brook  every  day,  and 
climb  up  Barker's  Hill  once  hi  a  while  and  get  rid  of  it 
all.  Mountains  are  good  for  you,  I  think." 

"Maybe.  But  I  don't  know  as  a  run-down  farm  is." 
Sarah  sniffed. 

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LOST  VALLEY 

"No.  I  can't  say  I  love  the  farm.  It's  a  poor  place. 
But  you  can  go  up  on  Barker's  Hill  at  sunset  and — 
contemplate." 

"Contemplate!  Where  in  creation  did  you  get  that 
word,  Madge  Lockerby?  You  haven't  got  taken  in  by 
any  of  these  fancy  religions  hi  New  York,  have  you?" 

Madge  laughed,  very  low.  "The  one  friend  I  really 
did  have  in  New  York — there  was  another  man  who  was 
very  kind  at  the  last,  but  he  wasn't  a  friend — told  me  two 
things  before  I  left.  He  told  me  that  it  was  my  duty  to 
do  for  my  grandmother,  and  he  told  me  that  contempla 
tion  was  the  best  thing  in  the  world  outside  of  the  duty 
that  was  laid  upon  you.  That's  the  point,  you  see, 
about  Uncle.  It's  laid  upon  me.  I  didn't  make  it. 
You're  not  supposed  to  rush  round  making  duties  for 
yourself.  It's  better  to  be  quiet  and  at  peace.  But 
when  it's  been  laid  on  you  before  you  were  born,  it's 
different." 

"Who  told  you  all  that  stuff?" 

"His  name  was  Jee  Gam." 

"What  kind  of  a  name  is  that,  for  pity's  sake?" 

"He  was  a  very  old  Chinaman.  He  was  blind,  and 
played  the  dulcimer  in  a  cellar,  and  I  used  to  sweep  out 
the  cellar  for  him,  and  dust  the  dulcimer.  He  gave  me 
this  piece  of  jade.  He  was  lovely  to  me." 

"Madge" — and  Miss  Martin's  voice  was  heavy  with 
anxiety — "don't  tell  me  you  found  nobody  better  to 
associate  with  than  the  Chinese." 

Madge's  eyes  narrowed  an  instant,  and  glittered.  The 
speech  glanced  too  near  a  place  that,  for  a  time,  had  hurt. 
Then  she  saw  how  absurd  it  was  to  be  angry  with  Miss 
Martin. 

"You  don't  understand."  She  explained  how  she  had 
literally  stumbled  into  Jee  Gam's  place.  "Then  I  used 
to  go  there  because  it  was  quiet — a  place  I  could  sit  and 
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LOST  VALLEY 

rest  in,  and  not  hear  the  city  noises.  Lots  of  people  come 
to  hear  him  play — lots  of  Americans,  I  mean.  I  never 
could  talk  to  him  except  when  a  young  friend  of  his — he 
was  a  Christian,  a  student  at  Columbia — was  there  to 
translate.  But  he's  quite  well  known  in  New  York. 
Mr.  Reilly — a  friend  of  Mr.  Burton's — has  known  him 
for  years.  He's  very  learned,  they  say:  he's  what  you 
call  a  philosopher.  I  think  he's  just  a  saint.  He 
couldn't  do  anything  to  help  me  about  Lola,  but  he 
did  help  me  a  lot,  just  the  same,  by  saying  peaceful 
things,  and  making  me  feel  that  if  we  do  our  duty, 
nothing  else  matters." 

"Humph!  I  never  was  much  interested  in  the  foreign 
field,  Madge — I've  always  been  a  good  deal  stronger  for 
home  missions,  to  tell  the  truth.  But  I've  always  under 
stood  that  if  there  was  anybody  in  creation  that  was  in 
sore  need  of  the  gospel,  it  was  the  Chinese.  I  wouldn't 
look  for  saints  among  them,  exactly." 

"  I  didn't  get  any  harm  from  Jee  Gam.  He  had  a  beau 
tiful  face,  Miss  Martin." 

"I  haven't  seen  many  Chinese,  except  a  few  laundry- 
men,  here  and  there.  If  they  had  any  good  looks,  it  was 
a  kind  that  didn't  appeal  to  me.  More  like  what  we  used 
to  make  out  of  oranges  when  we  were  children." 

Madge  laughed  outright.  "I  don't  like  their  looks 
much,  either,  as  a  general  thing.  But  it  makes  a  lot  of 
difference  when  you  see  them  in  their  own  clothes.  Quong 
always  dressed  like  an  American;  but  Jee  Gam  wore 
dark  silk  things,  and  they  certainly  were  becoming  to 
him.  He  used  to  say  one  thing  that  wouldn't  have 
suited  you,  Miss  Martin:  'Do  nothing,  and  all  things 
will  be  done.'" 

"Humph!  It  certainly  isn't  true.  Madge,  I  never 
did  like  to  interfere  with  other  people's  religion,  but 
I  wonder  if  it  wouldn't  do  you  good  to  talk  to  our 

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LOST  VALLEY 

minister.  It  seems  to  me  you've  got  rather  slack,  to 
say  the  least." 

"No,  thank  you.  I  guess  I  don't  want  to.  You  don't 
have  to  worry  about  me.  It  isn't  to  be  expected  that  I 
should  be  dragged  through  so  many  queer  places  without 
being  led  to  wonder.  I'll  come  through — don't  you  worry. 
But  I  don't  believe  I'm  the  kind  of  person  that  ever  would 
be  pious.  I'm  a  Christian  all  right — honestly  I  am — but 
I  don't  believe  for  a  minute  that  the  whole  truth  about 
everything  is  known  right  here  in  Siloam.  Your  minister 
would  probably  have  told  me  I  oughtn't  to  listen  to  Jee 
Gam.  But  there  have  been  times,  Miss  Martin,  when 
Jee  Gam  was  the  only  thing  that  held  me  to  any  religion 
at  all.  I  know  one  thing  for  sure:  there  are  plenty  of 
Christians  that  don't  act  so  much  like  Christians  as  he 
did." 

"Well,  have  it  your  own  way,  Madge.  I'm  not  criti 
cizing.  Only  you  don't  sound  to  me  like  a  girl  that's 
going  to  be  content  to  be  shut  up  in  Lost  Valley  all  her 
life — in  Siloam,  either,  if  it  comes  to  that." 

"  I  suppose  you'd  think  it  was  queer  if  I  said  I'd  rather 
live  in  the  Valley  than  in  Siloam." 

"There's  no  accounting  for  tastes,"  Miss  Martin  re 
plied  dryly. 

"The  Valley's  beautiful — and  Siloam  just  isn't  any 
thing." 

There  was  a  certain  pathos  and  fineness  in  the  older 
woman's  reply.  "No,  Madge,  I  don't  blame  you.  I 
don't  agree  with  you  about  the  Valley  as  a  place  to  live 
in,  but  I  don't  want  to  hold  you  down  to  Siloam.  I  think 
you  can  fit  yourself,  probably,  for  a  bigger  field." 

"I  want  to  find  some  temporary  work  in  Siloam." 

Miss  Martin  struck  her  hand  sharply  against  her  knee. 
"You  stay  right  here  with  me  this  summer.  You  can 
help  with  the  preserving,  and  lots  of  other  things.  And 
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LOST  VALLEY 

you  can  do  some  studying.  I'd  like  it  if  you  could  go  to  a 
normal  school,  come  fall." 

"I  don't  believe  they'd  take  me." 

"I've  got  some  influence  over  at  Chilton,  and  I  guess  I 
could  work  it.  If  you  studied  during  the  summer." 

"I  told  you  how  I  felt  about  Uncle,"  Madge  objected. 
"I'll  be  glad  to  study,  if  you'll  teach  me.  But — I  don't 
believe  I'd  want  to  teach,  all  my  life,  even  if  I  could  go 
through  normal  school." 

Miss  Martin,  this  time,  was  hurt.  "Why  not?  What 
have  you  got  in  mind?" 

Madge  rose  and  walked  about  for  a  moment  before  she 
spoke.  "I  don't  know.  I  haven't  got  anything.  Yes,  I 
have,  too.  I'll  work  it  out  better,  later.  But  I'd  rather 
do  something  different — something  not  quite  so  safe, 
perhaps.  1  feel  as  if  I  could  help  lots  of  people,  with  what 
I've  learned.  If  the  young  man  at  the  Settlement  had 
known  as  much  as  I  know  now,  I'd  have  found  Lola 
quicker.  And  he  was  college-educated,  too.  The  great 
mystery  in  this  life  isn't  books,  Miss  Martin — it's  people. 
I  know  book  learning  is  important:  I  mean  to  study  as 
hard  as  ever  I  can.  But  when  you  come  right  down  to  it, 
what  you  need  to  know  about  is  human  beings.  'Twouldn't 
have  helped  me  one  bit,  the  last  year,  to  know  Latin; 
but  it  would  have  helped  me  a  lot  if  I'd  had  more  ex 
perience  of  people.  There  are  several  mistakes  I  wouldn't 
have  made.  You  wouldn't  have  made  them,  probably. 
But  it  wouldn't  have  been  because  you  knew  history  and 
Latin;  it  would  have  been  because  you  had  more  knowl 
edge  of  the  world." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  Madge,"  Miss  Martin  an 
swered  crisply.  "I  certainly  would  have  picked  up  my 
skirts  and  run  away  from  a  heathen  Chinaman  a  good 
deal  faster  than  I  would  from  any  drunken  man."  But 
the  hurt  was  soothed,  all  the  same,  by  the  tribute.  "All 

369 


LOST  VALLEY 

is,  you'll  stay  here  with  me,  and  study  good  and  hard, 
and  help  me  with  the  cleaning.  I  always  have  to  wait 
till  summer  to  give  the  house  a  good  turn-out.  Then  we'll 
see." 

"All  right,  Miss  Martin.  I'll  do  what  you  say.  You 
ought  to  know  best.  Good  night." 

Sarah  wiped  off  the  kiss  mechanically  with  her  hand 
kerchief,  and  sniffed.  "Good  night." 


CHAPTER  THREE 

UNTIL  late  August,  Madge  stuck  to  her  promise. 
The  work  that  Sarah  Martin  had  always  done  with 
ease,  to  Sarah  and  Madge  together  was  more  like  play. 
There  was  much  leisure  in  the  old  house.  Madge's  bloom 
came  back  to  her.  She  kept  the  traces  of  her  experience 
in  certain  subtle  alterations  of  contour  about  the  mouth 
and  eyes,  but  the  dew  of  youth  was  fresh  upon  her.  The 
past  year  had  given  her  a  vast  store  of  contrasts  to  dwell 
upon;  and  from  the  sense  of  contrast  is  born,  in  certain 
temperaments,  the  sense  of  humor.  Madge's  face  had 
learned  the  trick  of  frequent  gravity;  but  she  laughed 
oftener  than  she  had  ever  done  before.  It  was  from 
Madge's  laughter,  rather  than  from  any  explicit  account, 
that  Miss  Martin  learned  most  about  the  detail  of  her  life 
in  Boston  and  New  York.  Phoebe  Mellen  lived  again; 
and  once,  irresistibly  drawn  forth  by  some  allusion, 
Juanita.  Meanwhile  Sarah  gave  her  history  to  read,  and 
taught  her  Latin  nouns  and  verbs.  She  had  hopes  still 
of  making  Madge  a  teacher.  I  think  that  is  why  she  chose 
Latin  to  drill  her  with.  Somewhere  behind  Sarah's  prim 
exterior  was  concealed  the  conviction  that  if  Latin  once 
got  hold  of  you,  you  could  never  quite  forsake  it.  Madge 
recited  her  declensions  and  conjugations  faithfully,  but 
I  cannot  say  that  Latin  seemed  to  her  to  gild  the  future. 
What  it  did,  however — and  who  shall  say  that  Sarah  did 
not  have  that,  too,  in  her  reticent  mind? — was  to  make 
her  cognizant  of  parts  of  speech.  She  demanded  lessons 
in  English  parsing — and  got  them.  Truly  they  were  two 
collegiate  ladies,  that  tranquil  summer. 

371 


LOST  VALLEY 

But  Madge  Lockerby  had  not  yet  spun  off  her  allotted 
stint  of  Valley  yarn.  The  interlude  was  bound  to  end, 
and  it  did,  abruptly,  over  a  preserving  kettle.  Madge 
lifted  scarlet  hands  from  the  bag  of  currants  she  was 
squeezing  out,  dried  them,  and  went  to  answer  the  knock 
at  the  kitchen  door.  Miss  Martin  remained  in  the  sum 
mer  kitchen,  deftly  skimming  the  boiling  juice. 

It  was  several  moments  before  Madge  returned,  and 
when  she  came  back,  her  hands  were  only  faintly  pink. 

"I'm  sorry,  Miss  Martin,  but  I  guess  I'll  have  to  stop 
right  now.  Couldn't  you  hang  up  that  last  bag  and  let 
it  drip  overnight?  Lots  of  people  claim  it  makes  the 
jelly  clearer." 

"What's  the  matter,  Madge?  Tired?  No,  I've  always 
squeezed;  my  mother  did  before  me.  It's  wasteful  to  let 
it  drip,  and  if  you  do,  you  have  to  squeeze  the  last  any 
how,  and  it  doesn't  come  so  clear." 

"I'll  finish  squeezing,  then."  But  she  turned  her  head 
irresolutely  from  side  to  side,  as  if  searching  for  a  path. 

"No,  you  needn't.  But  what's  the  matter?  Wait  a 
minute.  This  is  all  ready  to  strain  now,  and  I'll  get  it 
into  the  glasses.  Then  you  can  tell  me." 

Madge  sat  down  suddenly.  "Oh,  I  suppose  there's 
time.  I'll  help.  Only  I've  got  to  go  down  and  see  Mr. 
Mann,  and  I  tried  to  get  some  of  the  stain  off  my  hands." 

"  It  '11  be  off  by  to-morrow.  Who  was  that,  at  the  door?  " 
Sarah  worked  as  she  spoke. 

"Jake  Leffingwell.  He  says  Uncle's  in  very  bad  shape 
— he  can  hardly  get  round.  Jake  thinks  he's  pretty  sick. 
He  said  he  didn't  come  and  tell  me  till  he  had  to.  Every 
body  over  there  thought  I  ought  to  know." 

"M-m."    They  had  moved  into  the  pantry  now,  and 
Sarah  was  ladling  the  jelly  into  the  tumblers.    The  regular 
motion  made  her  scan  her  phrases — a  caesura  between 
pourings. 
372 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Did  Andrew— send  him?" 

"No,  oh  no.  But  they  don't  like  to  take  the  responsi 
bility  any  more.  The  neighbors,  I  mean."  Mechanically 
Madge  set  the  glasses  back  in  a  row  as  they  were  filled. 

"Does  he — suppose — Andrew  will — let  you — into — the 
house?  " 

"No,  he  doesn't  believe  he  will.  But  he  thinks — they 
all  think — I  ought  to  be  nearer.  In  case  anything  should 
happen.  And  the  Finches  and  the  Leffingwells  have  an 
idea  I  might  work  my  way  into  the  house,  if  Uncle  should 
be  sick.  I  guess  they've  been  waiting  a  good  many  weeks 
to  get  this  word  to  me.  They've  held  out  as  long  as  they 
dared." 

"What  you — going  to — do  about  it?"  Sarah  was  near- 
ing  the  bottom  of  the  kettle  now,  and  spoke  a  little  more 
briskly. 

"Well,  go  over  and  talk  to  them." 

"I  heard — Andrew  Lockerby — was  poorly,"  Miss  Mar 
tin  admitted.  Then  she  drew  a  long  sigh,  as  the  last  glass 
was  filled.  "Came  out  just  even,"  she  murmured. 

"When  did  you  hear  that?" 

"A  few  days  ago." 

"Where?" 

"Where  you  hear  everything — down  at  Benner's.  I 
didn't  say  anything,  because  I  thought  there  was  time 
enough  for  you  to  know  when  your  uncle  sent  for  you. 
He  hasn't  done  that  yet." 

"No.  He  won't.  At  least,  not  until  he's  pretty  badly 
off.  But  I  think  I  ought  to  go  over  and  talk  to  the 
neighbors." 

Sarah  washed  and  wiped  her  hands.  They  were  clean 
before  the  ladling  process,  but  Sarah  punctuated  all  house 
work  with  frequent  handwashings,  regardless  of  necessity. 
It  was  a  sign  that  one  set  of  motions  was  over,  and  another 
waiting  for  her  to  begin  upon  it. 

373 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Well,  Madge,  no  one  can  say  I  ever  interfered  with 
you.  If  your  uncle  won't  let  you  into  the  house,  I  don't 
see  what  you  can  do.  I  never  heard  that  either  Finches 
or  Leffingwells  were  noted  for  wisdom.  Still,  I  can  see 
that  if  they've  sent  for  you,  it  might  look  badly  for  you 
not  to  go.  You  tell  Silas  Mann  to  be  sure  and  wait  round. 
You  probably  won't  be  very  late  back,  but  I'll  sit  up  for 
you,  of  course." 

"No,  Miss  Martin,  I  wouldn't  do  that,  thank  you  just 
the  same.  I  think  I  shall  pack  a  bag  and  stay  over  there." 

"You  think  your  uncle  will  let  you  in?" 

"I  don't  know.  Very  likely  not.  But  I'm  sure  the 
Finches  or  the  Leffingwells  would.  I've  just  got  to  be  on 
the  spot  for  a  while.  Lola  went,  and  Granny  went — and 
I  couldn't  lift  a  finger  to  help.  I'm  not  going  to  let  Uncle 
go  without  my  being  there." 

"Why,  he  isn't  even  confined  to  his  bed,  Madge!  You 
talk  like  an  undertaker." 

"Is  it  any  wonder?"  Madge  asked  bitterly. 

So  it  happened  that  Madge  returned  to  Lost  Valley,  in 
spite  of,  and  for  the  sake  of,  Andrew  Lockerby.  She  had 
no  speech  with  her  uncle :  it  is  doubtful  if,  for  a  long  time, 
he  even  suspected  her  presence  in  the  Valley.  If  he  found 
the  house  tidier  than  usual,  and  food  prepared  for  him, 
he  put  it  down  to  the  neighborly  sympathy  of  Ma'am 
Finch  or  Ma'am  Leffingwell — galvanized,  somehow,  into 
efficiency.  He  never  saw  Madge  spying  on  him  from 
behind  a  house  wall  or  a  clump  of  lilacs.  He  felt  no  pres 
ence  brooding  above  him,  at  sunset,  on  the  uplifted  ridge 
of  Barker's  Hill.  But  as  autumn  drew  on  and  deepened 
quickly  (it  was  to  be  an  early  winter  and  a  hard  one) 
Andrew  could  do  less  and  less;  and  he  had  to  spend  long 
intervals  in  the  house,  resting,  between  chores.  Pain  was 
a  new  portent  to  him.  He  treated  it  at  first  with  resent 
ful  scorn,  but  there  came  a  time  when  he  could  not  sur- 
374 


LOST  VALLEY 

mount  it,  when  the  whole  man  went  down  under  the  on 
slaught.  One  morning  Andrew  had  not  strength  to  battle 
his  way  up  from  his  bed  and  into  his  clothes.  Jake  Leffing- 
well  found  him  lying  there  with  face  upturned,  hands 
clenched,  his  face  shiny  with  sweat. 

Madge  considered,  when  Jake  brought  this  news.  Her 
first  impulse  was  to  rush  over  and  try  her  luck  anew. 
Second  thoughts  dissuaded  her.  She  needed  more  backing 
still,  before  she  could  be  sure,  and  she  was  not  going  to 
be  turned  from  that  door  again.  She  decided  quickly. 
Ma'am  Finch  was  to  go  and  stay  in  the  house  all  day; 
she  would  do  the  work  of  the  Finch  household;  Jake  was 
to  harness  up  and  not  return  until  he  could  bring  the  doctor 
with  him.  On  what  the  doctor  said,  her  own  plans  must 
depend. 

It  was  five  o'clock  when  Doctor  Brainerd  walked  into 
the  Finch  house  and  demanded  Madge.  Folk  who  are 
pampered  with  specialists  would  not  have  looked  at  him; 
but  twenty-five  years  of  dealing  with  most  of  the  ills  the 
human  body  can  develop,  had  taught  him  much.  Walt 
Whitman  could  have  achieved  one  of  his  most  delirious 
enumerations,  had  he  sung  the  general  practitioner. 
Eyes  as  unnaturally  blue  as  a  sailor's,  deep-set,  as  if  for 
safety,  among  the  massive  irregular  features  that  broke 
up  the  weather-beaten  face,  looked  out  steadily  on  a 
various  world.  Doctor  Brainerd's  vocabulary  was  as 
homely  as  the  crops  of  his  clients,  but  he  was  a  good  man 
in  a  sick  room,  and  not  too  proud  to  confess  inability. 

"Well,  Madge  Lockerby!"  He  shut  the  door  of  the 
room  against  intrusive  Finches.  "Why  aren't  you  over 
there  where  you  belong?" 

"If  you'll  persuade  my  uncle  to  let  me  into  the  house, 
I'll  be  only  too  grateful." 

"Oh,  that's  how  it  is,  is  it?    What's  the  matter?" 

Madge  explained  briefly. 
25  375 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Humph!  Well,  Andrew  Lockerby  never  was  easy  to 
manage.  Good  deal  like  a  breachy  cow.  But  he'll  have  to 
knuckle  under,  this  time — sooner  or  later,  he  will.  I  don't 
feel  easy  in  my  mind  about  him.  I'll  watch  him  for  a 
spell.  If  he  gets  too  far  down,  perhaps  I  can  work  you  in. 
No  reason  why  you  shouldn't  cook  for  him,  I  suppose,  as 
long  as  somebody  else  takes  his  victuals  to  him?" 

"No.  He's  been  eating  a  good  deal  of  my  cooking 
lately — though  he  didn't  know  it." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  he  ought  to  have.  You  stick  round 
as  close  as  you  can.  If  it's  what  I  think  it  is,  he'll  want 
you  round  before  very  long." 

So  a  new  regime  began.  Andrew  bedridden  was  easier 
to  deceive.  Madge  stayed  nearly  all  day  in  the  house. 
She  would  have  slept  there,  but  that  she  did  not  dare 
appear  in  answer  to  a  sudden  call  in  the  night.  The  neigh 
bors  took  turns  in  occupying  Granny's  old  four-poster. 
But  the  work  of  the  house  was  done  by  Madge.  Just 
what  consummation  she  hoped  for,  it  is  difficult  to  say. 
Certainly  it  was  a  comfort  to  her  to  know  that  Lockerby 
pride  was  being  circumvented  by  Lockerby  loyalty.  It 
soothed  her  that  a  Lockerby  should  be  doing  for  a  Lock 
erby,  even  through  secrecy  and  misunderstanding.  In 
November,  there  came  an  evening  when  Doctor  Brainerd 
fetched  Madge  from  the  kitchen,  and  sent  her  into  her 
uncle's  room. 

"But  does  he  know  I'm  here?" 

"I've  told  him  you're  here.  He's  pretty  low  in  his 
mind.  He's  willing  to  see  you." 

"  Yes,  he'd  have  to  be  low  in  his  mind  for  that ! "  Madge 
was  bitter — bitter  at  the  unnecessary  waste  of  emotion. 
Waste  of  emotion  is  usually  the  last  thing  youth  resents, 
but  Madge's  treasury  had  been  drawn  on  aforetime  and 
extravagantly. 

"Don't  you  take  it  that  way,  Madge,"  the  doctor 
376 


LOST  VALLEY 

warned  her.  "If  Andrew  'd  ever  had  a  chance  to  take 
proper  care  of  himself,  he  needn't  have  been  brought  to 
this  pass.  I'm  leaving  something  that  '11  make  him  sleep 
to-night.  He'll  need  it.  No  reason,  I  believe,  why  he 
shouldn't  be  a  well  man  yet,  if  he'll  use  sense.  That's 
where  you  come  in.  If  you've  got  any  grievance,  forget  it. 
I  don't  care  a  rap  about  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  it.  The 
patient's  always  in  the  right.  If  you  have  to  tell  some 
taradiddles,  tell  'em.  If  you  could  pull  your  chin  in  a 
little,  it  might  help." 

He  went  out  into  the  early  night,  and  Madge  entered 
her  uncle's  room. 

Andrew  stared  at  her.  His  truculence  had  been  so 
weakened  by  pain  that  it  was  only  pitiful;  yet  the  spirit 
was  so  obviously  unchanged  that  Madge  wondered  why 
he  had  consented  to  see  her. 

"That  you,  Madge?  When  did  you  get  here?  Crows 
beginning  to  flock,  eh?" 

The  girl  seated  herself  on  a  low  chair  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  "I've  been  here  two  months  and  more.  Near  by, 
I  mean.  I  haven't  slept  a  night  under  your  roof,  or  done 
anything  you  need  to  resent." 

"Where  have  you  been  staying?" 

"Over  at  Finches'." 

"WTiat  did  you  come  for?" 

"I  came  because  I  heard  you  were  poorly,  and  I  couldn't 
bear  to  be  as  far  away  as  Siloam.  You  may  not  have 
forgiven  me,  Uncle  Andrew;  but  you  can't  change  the 
fact  that  you  and  I  are  the  nearest  to  each  other  of  any 
body  living.  I  don't  know  how  you  feel  about  it,  but  it 
hurts  my  pride  to  have  other  folks  doing  for  you." 

Andrew  Lockerby  turned  uneasily  at  the  behest  of  pain. 

"It  didn't  hurt  your  pride  much  last  winter." 

"Uncle,  do  we  need  to  talk  about  that  any  more?  Lola 
was  part  Lockerby,  anyhow !  But  do  you  suppose  Granny 

377 


LOST  VALLEY 

would  want  you  to  cast  me  off  now?  I  don't  believe  it. 
Anyway,  she's  dead,  and  Lola's  dead.  There's  just  you 
and  I  left.  The  last  Lockerbys."  She  lifted  her  head. 
"You  can  take  it  or  leave  it,  Uncle  Andrew.  I  won't 
make  this  house  my  home  until  you  give  me  leave.  But 
if  somebody  else  is  going  to  do  my  work,  I'm  going  to  do 
their  work.  That's  all." 

"I  give  you  leave,  Madge.  I  give  you  leave."  There 
was  something  enigmatical  in  Andrew's  faint  wry  smile. 
It  was  the  fruit  of  secret  communings.  Madge  knew 
vaguely  that  she  did  not  understand,  but  she  was  too  re 
lieved,  and  bewildered  in  her  relief,  to  question  much. 
Besides,  Andrew  had  always  been  incomprehensible  to 
her.  She  had  never  tried  to  bridge  the  gap  between  the 
generations. 

"I'm  glad,  Uncle.  I'll  fetch  my  things  right  over." 
She  half  rose. 

"Sit  you  down.  Sit  you  down.  There's  no  hurry.  I 
want  to  talk  to  you  a  little.  Brainerd  said  he'd  leave  me 
something  to  make  me  sleep.  I  may  as  well  get  a  few 
things  off  my  mind  before  that." 

"All  right,  Uncle."  She  sank  back  again  in  the  chair. 
"Only  don't  tire  yourself." 

"  I  haven't  had  so  much  conversation  the  last  six  months 
that  a  few  words  are  going  to  tire  me  now,"  he  answered 
dryly.  "We'll  let  bygones  be  bygones — for  now,  any 
how.  I'd  like  to  know  something  about  what  you  were 
up  to  while  you  were  gadding  about  off  there." 

She  sketched  her  quest  for  him  very  briefly — in  a  score 
of  sentences — and  told  him  of  Lola's  death. 

"Went  through  a  good  deal  for  her,  didn't  you?" 

Madge  closed  her  eyes.  "It's  over.  I  don't  like  to 
think  about  it.  I  didn't  think  about  it  so  much  at  the 
time.  You  see,  I  was  always  working  hard,  in  a  factory 
or  something,  to  earn  my  living.  I  just  set  my  teeth  and 
378 


LOST  VALLEY 

went  on.  But  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  could  go  through 
with  it  again." 

"You're  pretty  well,  aren't  you?" 

Madge  stared.  The  note  sounded  almost  anxious. 
"Oh  yes,  I'm  well.  I'm  strong  anyway,  you  know.  And 
I  got  finely  rested  up  in  Siloam  this  summer — only  for 
worrying  about  you." 

"Humph!"  The  protest  was  wrenched  out  of  Andrew, 
though  it  was  confined  to  the  one  ejaculation. 

"There's  one  thing  I'd  like  to  tell  you,  Uncle,  if  you 
don't  mind  my  mentioning  Lola  once  more."  He  closed 
his  eyes,  and  she  took  it  for  consent.  "I  found  out,  after 
Lola  died — at  least  a  friend  of  mine  found  out  and  told 
me — that  it  was  just  as  I'd  always  thought,  about  her. 
It  was  the  monkey  that  lured  her  away.  'T wasn't  the 
man.  She  was  killed  trying  to  save  the  monkey's  life. 
All  the  Italians  that  knew  her  and  Giuseppe  said  there 
wasn't  anything  between  them.  He  just  treated  her  like 
a  child.  They  all  said  so.  You  know  ignorant  people — 
foreigners — don't  feel  about  half-witted  folks  the  way  we 
do.  They  seemed  to  think  she  was  a  kind  of  saint.  She 
just  cared  about  the  monkey.  I  know  it's  better  she's 
dead — poor  lamb.  But  I'm  not  above  being  glad  there  was 
Lockerby  enough  in  her  to  keep  her  straight.  You  don't 
feel  that  way,  most  likely,  but  you  may  as  well  know  how 
I  feel." 

"I  don't  know  as  I  blame  you,  Madge,  for  feeling  the 
way  you  do.  It  don't  matter  how  I  feel,  anyway.  What 
I'd  like  to  know  is  what  Sarah  Martin  has  fixed  for  you 
to  do." 

"Miss  Martin  is  a  good  friend  of  mine.  She's  been 
teaching  me  this  summer.  But  she  doesn't  have  any  say 
about  my  life,  and  she  knows  it.  I  guess  she'd  like  me  to 
teach  sometime.  But  I  don't  believe  I  was  cut  out  for  a 
teacher.  And  anyhow,  she  knows  perfectly  well  that  I'm 

379 


LOST   VALLEY 

going  to  stay  right  here  in  Lost  Valley.  Beyond  that,  I 
haven't  got  any  plans." 

"Goin'  to  bury  me  and  then  look  about  you,  eh?" 

"Uncle!  Doctor  Brainerd  says  there's  no  reason  why 
you  shouldn't  be  all  right.  And  I  haven't  got  a  plan,  or 
a  desire,  or  so  much  as  a  whimsy,  to  do  anything  but  stay 
right  at  home." 

Andrew  twisted  himself  again  into  another  position.  He 
set  his  teeth  for  a  moment  to  keep  back  any  murmur  of 
pain.  Then  the  great  wave  eased  off — until  the  next 
time. 

"I  sh'd  think  you'd  admire  to  be  a  teacher,  Madge. 
Your  mother  was,  before  you,  and  you've  always  hankered 
after  Sarah  Martin's  way  of  life." 

"I  don't  believe  I  knew  what  I  hankered  after.  I  see 
things  different,  now.  I'm  not  afraid  I  couldn't  find  work 
to  do  if  I  had  to — but  it  wouldn't  be  teaching.  It  would 
be  something  more  interesting.  I  learned  a  good  many 
things  last  year." 

"Did  you  ever  see  young  Burton  while  you  was  in  New 
York?" 

"Once  or  twice,  just  before  I  left." 

"He  was  kind  of  a  fly-away,  but  I  rather  took  to  him 
while  he  was  up  here." 

"Did  you?"  Madge  did  not  even  color — so  far  had 
she  come.  "I  didn't  like  him  as  much  in  New  York  as  I 
did  here." 

"Wa'n't  he  polite  to  you?" 

"Oh,  yes — in  a  way.  But  he  never  understood  the 
Lockerbys,  and  he  never  will.  I  don't  know  as  I'd  ever 
care  to  meet  him  again.  We  didn't  get  on  any  too  well. 
I  guess  I  was  a  little  mite  stiff  with  him.  You  have  to 
be  stiff  in  New  York.  Sometimes." 

She  wondered  more  and  more  at  the  length  and  nature 
of  her  uncle's  catechism.  The  things  he  wanted  to  know 
380 


LOST  VALLEY 

were  so  very  far  from  being  the  things  she  would  have 
expected. 

"You  seem  to  set  great  store  by  being  a  Lockerby,  all 
of  a  sudden,"  he  remarked  at  last.  "I  wouldn't  have  sup 
posed  it  would  be  any  great  help  to  you  anywhere  outside 
the  Valley." 

"  It  was  the  only  thing  I  did  have  to  help  me.  I  suppose 
that's  why  I  came  to  value  it.  Don't  you  worry  about 
me,  Uncle.  I'm  well  and  strong,  and  amply  able  to  do  for 
you,  and  I'd  be  amply  able  to  support  myself  if  I  had  to." 

"Guess  I'll  have  that  medicine,  now,"  he  said  finally. 
"It  takes  half  an  hour  or  so  to  work.  Did  Brainerd  tell 
you  what  he  thought  was  the  matter  with  me?" 

"No." 

"Well,  he  told  me."  The  old  bitterness  had  come  back 
into  the  voice,  the  old  note  of  accusation.  "I  had  a  bad 
fall  last  winter.  It  didn't  do  me  any  good.  And  your 
grandmother  was  no  nurse." 

"Oh,  Uncle!"  Then  she  was  silent.  Into  the  old  quar 
rel  of  her  responsibilities  she  would  not  go.  But  her  eyes 
filled  and  overflowed.  The  tears  fell  thick  and  fast  on  the 
bedclothes  as  she  straightened  them. 

"No  good  crying  over  spilled  milk.  You  get  some  fresh 
water,  and  I'll  take  that  pill.  I'm  all  tuckered  out,  some 
how.  God  Almighty!  I've  had  to  come  to  this,  to  get  a 
good  night's  rest."  His  eyes  brooded  on  the  dark  oblong 
of  the  unshaded  window  beyond  his  bed. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

T  11  7HEN  Madge  heard  from  Doctor  Brainerd  his  sur- 
V  V  mises  about  her  uncle,  she  was,  in  spite  of  her 
new-found  equilibrium,  dismayed.  Then  she  gathered  her 
forces  together  to  deal  with  the  situation.  Youth,  which 
has  been  hymned  for  its  beauty,  has  never  sufficiently  been 
hymned  for  its  fortitude.  A  question  of  arteries,  if  you 
like.  But  a  moral  matter,  as  well. 

"He  don't  seem  to  take  a  proper  interest,  Madge," 
Doctor  Brainerd  complained.  "  I'm  pretty  sure  an  opera 
tion  would  be  successful,  if  he  has  it  right  now.  If  he 
waits,  it  '11  be  no  manner  of  use,  and  he'll  be  suffering 
more  all  the  time.  I  can't  get  much  out  of  Andrew,  but 
as  far  as  I  can  make  out,  it  was  that  fall  that  did  the 
business.  I  don't  believe  there  were  any  symptoms  before. 
You've  been  round  the  world  a  good  deal  lately,  and  you 
might  tell  him  folks  have  operations  all  the  time." 

"I'll  do  what  I  can.    Where  would  he  go  to  have  it?" 

Doctor  Brainerd  screwed  his  face  up.  "I  declare, 
Madge,  it's  hard  to  say.  I  don't  think  much  of  that 
cottage  hospital  in  Chilton,  and  they'd  have  to  get  a 
good  surgeon  from  elsewhere.  I'd  prefer  him  to  go  to 
Boston.  Poor  surgery's  worse  than  none." 

"How  much  will  it  cost?" 

"Now  don't  you  fret  about  that,  Madge.  If  it's  got  to 
be  managed,  'twill  be.  Of  course  it  would  be  easier  to 
have  it  done  in  the  state  itself.  But  I  declare  I'd  rather 
see  him  go  to  Boston  than  Chilton.  If  it  has  to  be  Chil 
ton,  it  has  to  be.  But  since  Doctor  Powers  died,  over 
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there,  they  haven't  found  anyone  that  really  took  his 
place.  Still,  we  won't  worry  about  that.  If  we  can  get 
Andrew  over  to  Chilton,  the  rest  will  follow." 

"You  see,  I  don't  suppose  there  is  any  money.  There 
never  has  been." 

"Plenty  of  folks  get  operated  on  without  any  money. 
They  have  free  beds  in  all  the  hospitals.  That's  why  I 
say  maybe  it's  best  to  try  Chilton.  He's  a  resident  of  the 
state,  you  see.  You  get  him  used  to  the  idea  of  the  opera 
tion,  Madge,  and  we'll  fix  up  the  rest  of  it  all  right.  He 
wouldn't  give  me  any  answer  last  night." 

"I'll  do  my  best." 

After  the  evening  chores  were  done,  Madge  came  and 
sat  by  his  bedside.  "I  want  to  talk  to  you,  Uncle,  about 
what  the  doctor  said." 

"Been  talking  to  you,  has  he?" 

"Yes.  We  had  a  long  talk.  I  didn't  know  until  to-day 
that  he  had  decided  you  need  an  operation." 

"So  he  told  me.  I  dunno  whether  Brainerd's  a  fool  or 
not.  Never  thought  he  was.  But  he  may  have  developed 
some  newfangled  notions  the  last  few  years.  I  haven't 
seen  him  for  some  time." 

"Come,  now,  Uncle,  let's  be  reasonable.  We've. got  to 
plan  it  out.  Doctor  Brainerd  thinks  an  operation  would 
make  it  all  right — probably.  And  you  can  go  over  to 
Chilton,  to  the  hospital,  and  have  it  performed." 

"S'posenldon't?" 

Madge  smoothed  the  counterpane  with  slow  strokes. 
"You'd  just  be  asking  for  trouble,  Uncle  Andrew.  .  .  . 
The  pain  would  get  worse  and  worse.  Isn't  it  better  to 
make  a  bold  stroke?  Maybe  you'd  be  better  than  you've 
been  for  years,  afterward." 

Her  uncle  turned  to  face  her  directly.  "Look  here, 
Madge,  you  tell  me  one  thing.  How  'm  I  going  to  pay 
for  surgical  operations?  I  don't  even  know  where  the 

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money's  to  come  from  to  pay  Brainerd.     There's  still 
somethin'  owin'  on  the  mowing  machine." 

"Don't  you  worry,  Uncle.  We'll  fix  it  up  somehow. 
'Twon't  cost  much  to  get  you  over  to  Chilton.  And  if 
people  can't  pay  for  operations,  they  do  perform  them, 
all  the  same.  Doctor  Brainerd  said  so.  It's  true,  too. 
They  do  in  New  York.  Lola  wouldn't  have  had  to  pay 
anything  if  I  hadn't  made  them  put  her  in  a  private  room. 
The  hospital  doctors  didn't  charge  anything." 

Andrew  looked  at  her  with  a  shine  of  interest  in  his 
eyes.  "Have  you  got  money  put  by?  " 

"No,  not  a  bit.  But  don't  think  about  that.  It's  for 
me  and  Doctor  Brainerd  to  think  and  plan.  You  just  say 
you'll  go  to  Chilton,  and  we'll  fix  up  everything." 

"I  never  did  hanker  after  being  cut  up,  in  my  lifetime." 

"People  do  it  all  the  time." 

"Dessay  they  do.  I  never  had  the  advantage  of  living 
in  New  York." 

"But  I  mean  everywhere." 

"So  I've  heard.  It's  quite  fashionable.  Seems  almost 
too  fashionable  for  me.9' 

An  idea  had  been  forming  in  the  subsoil  of  Madge's 
mind.  At  this  point  it  struggled  to  the  upper  level,  and 
put  forth  a  visible  head.  The  merest  wisp  of  a  notion: 
but  a  promise  and  prophecy,  none  the  less,  of  a  plan. 

"I'm  not  sure  Boston  wouldn't  be  better  than  Chilton," 
she  said  calmly.  "  I  know  Doctor  Brainerd  would  prefer  it. " 

"Humph!"  Andrew  grunted.  "If  I'm  going  to  have 
an  operation,  I  guess  I'll  have  it  in  California.  I  always 
did^want  to  go  there,  and  the  trip  would  be  worth  it.  I'd 
go  in  a  Pullman  car,  of  course — being  a  Lockerby." 

"That's  too  bad  of  you,  Uncle  Andrew.  To  make  fun 
of  me." 

"What  about  you  making  fun  of  me?    Or  have  you  got 
something  up  your  sleeve?" 
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LOST  VALLEY 

"Maybe  I  have.    You  leave  it  to  me." 

"There's  another  thing.  The  place.  I  don't  believe  I 
could  get  a  second  mortgage  on  it,  and  I  won't  anyhow. 
But  if  there  comes  a  time  when  they  let  you  do  business 
for  me,  or  I  don't  know  what  I'm  up  to,  don't  you  let 
them  bulldoze  you  into  any  second  mortgage.  It  would 
just  mean  losing  the  place.  I  might  be  able  to  sell  it  for 
pasture  and  the  wood  lot,  and  have  a  little  left  over  after 
the  mortgage  was  paid.  But  it  would  swallow  up  two 
mortgages  right  away,  and  there'd  be  nothing  left — ex 
cept,  maybe,  debts.  I  won't  have  a  second  mortgage  on 
the  place,  Madge — even  if  anybody  round  here  was  fool 
enough  to  take  it." 

"I  never  dreamed  of  a  second  mortgage,  Uncle.  Any 
way,  it's  your  place,  not  mine." 

"If  they  got  me  to  a  hospital,  they  might  get  a  power 
of  attorney  out  of  me  for  you,  and  then  they  could  diddle 
you  out  of  everything.  A  man  ain't  in  his  own  hands  or 
in  his  right  mind  when  strange  doctors  have  got  a  hold 
of  him." 

"  I'll  promise  you  that,  if  you  want.  But  if  I'm  making 
promises,  I  think  you  might  make  me  one.  About  the 
operation,  I  mean." 

The  man  turned  fretfully  in  his  bed.  "Not  to-night. 
You  can  wait  till  to-morrow.  I  don't  mind  promising  I'll 
make  my  mind  up  by  then." 

"All  right.    That's  splendid." 

Madge  did  not  mention  her  idea  to  her  uncle.  She 
wanted  to  hover  over  it  a  little  longer,  watch  it  define 
itself  more  clearly.  She  was  not  sorry  for  the  night's 
respite.  By  the  morrow  she  would  have  thought  it  out, 
and  found  a  way  to  present  it  attractively  to  her  uncle, 
if  necessary. 

"Don't  you  have  any  dealings  more  than  you  can  help, 
ever,  with  Jacob  Partridge,  Madge." 

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LOST  VALLEY 

"Jacob  Partridge?  Oh,  over  at  Siloam.  He  holds  the 
mortgage,  doesn't  he?  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  spoke  to  him. 
But  I  never  did  like  his  looks.  I'd  never  go  near  him  unless 
you  sent  me,  you  can  be  sure.  You  just  trust  me,  Uncle 
Andrew."  Her  voice  was  more  cheerful,  for  the  idea  was 
growing  more  coherent.  "Now  I'll  give  you  your  sleep 
ing-medicine." 

"Not  yet.  Not  yet.  You  put  it  there,  with  a  glass  of 
water,  and  I'll  take  it  later,  when  I  want  it." 

"I'll  sit  up  till  you  call  me." 

"You  go  to  bed.  You're  all  tuckered  out.  I've  only 
got  to  reach  for  it,  and  swallow  it,  and  blow  out  the  can 
dle.  I'm  not  a  baby  just  because  I'm  a  candidate  for  an 
operation." 

He  was  frankly  complaining  now,  and  Madge  judged 
it  wiser  to  give  in.  Nor  was  she  sorry  to  be  alone  with  her 
idea.  Details  were  not  yet  clear  in  her  mind;  but  it  had 
come  to  her  that  there  was  a  channel  of  appeal.  She 
would  never  have  taken  it  for  herself — but  that  was  dif 
ferent.  How  would  people  get  on  at  all  in  this  world  if 
you  were  as  proud  for  others  as  for  yourself?  She  could 
do  things  for  her  uncle,  as  he  could,  in  like  case,  have 
done  things  for  her.  Pride  would  die  a  sad  death  if  it 
were  not  for  that  loophole  of  vicarious  humility.  Madge 
rose. 

"You'll  be  taking  it  pretty  soon?" 

"I  can't  say  when  I'll  be  taking  it.  I'm  more  comfort 
able  now,  and  I  want  to  think  this  thing  over.  Time 
enough  to  swallow  the  pill  when  the  pain  comes  on  again. 
You  go  to  bed.  It  '11  worry  me  if  I  know  you're  hanging 
round  to  see  my  candle  go  out." 

"All  right.  Good  night."  She  stood  looking  down  at 
him  with  real  sympathy  and  concern.  She  did  not  kiss 
him.  She  let  her  tenderness  show  in  her  reluctance  to  go, 
her  awkward  fingering  of  the  bedcovers.  They  were  a 


LOST  VALLEY 

clear  enough  sign  to  Andrew  Lockerby  that  her  heart  was 
touched.  She  did  not  say  more,  for  a  sudden  desire  for 
the  outer  air  had  quickened  her,  and  she  crept  away  to 
satisfy  it.  So  she  crossed  the  threshold,  leaving  his  door 
almost  closed,  blew  out  the  lamp  in  the  living  room,  and 
stepped  into  the  chamber  beyond,  which  had  been 
Granny's.  She  closed  the  door  behind  her — not  with  a 
slam,  but  audibly,  with  purpose.  Then  she  put  on  her 
heavy  coat,  tied  a  woolen  scarf  about  her  head,  blew  out 
her  candle,  and  opened  the  door  again,  very  softly.  A  slit 
of  light  beneath  Andrew's  door  showed  that  he  was 
"thinking  it  over"  in  solitude  and  silence. 

The  stars  were  intolerably  bright.  So  it  struck  Madge 
as  she  stood  against  the  house  wall  and  looked  up  at  the 
spacious  sky.  Instinct  had  driven  her  to  take  her  place  be 
neath  the  south  window  in  Granny's  room,  where  she  had 
the  whole  thickness  of  the  house  between  herself  and 
Andrew.  She  would  have  liked  to  go  to  the  back,  where 
the  ground  rose  up  to  the  slopes  of  Barker's  Hill — or  to 
the  barnyard,  where  you  looked  up  at  Polaris  and  the 
Dipper.  But  her  uncle's  room  was  in  that  corner:  she 
must  not  risk  disturbing  him  by  a  shadow,  by  a  sound. 
So  she  stared  at  the  broken  line  of  the  Leffingwells'  barns, 
and  then  up,  up  to  the  stupendous  patterning  of  lights. 
The  cold  shook  her,  and  she  began  to  walk  back  and  forth 
by  the  house  wall,  swinging  her  arms  gently.  But  she 
stopped  frequently  in  her  pacings  to  throw  her  head  back 
— far  back,  till  her  neck  hurt — and  front  the  familiar  con 
stellations.  She  remembered  that  Desmond  Reilly  had 
once  spoken  to  her  of  the  Southern  Cross.  She  knew 
nothing  of  that,  but  it  couldn't  be  more  startling  or  more 
beautiful  than  this  tracery  of  worlds.  Strength  flowed 
back  into  her  after  many  days.  A  curious  uplifted  sense 
of  justification  possessed  her.  She  was  fighting  for  her 
uncle's  life  and  peace  and  health,  under  the  auspices  of 

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LOST  VALLEY 

an  ordered  universe.  It  was  right;  she  was  right;  all  that 
marshaled  light  bore  witness.  She  hated  to  go  in,  and  turn 
her  back  on  that  shining  warrant.  But  she  had  had  her 
sign,  and  she  must  do  her  part,  not  stop  and  star-gaze  and 
get  a  chill.  Reluctantly  she  obeyed  the  voice  of  common 
sense,  trying  to  feel  that  her  own  health  was  part  of  the 
pattern.  She  had  stayed  too  long,  as  it  was:  she  was  cold. 
Madge  opened  the  front  door  very  softly,  and  looked 
across  at  Andrew's  door.  The  light  was  out.  He  had 
taken  his  medicine,  then,  and  would  be  dropping  off.  It 
seemed  to  her  another  good  sign  vouchsafed:  for  it  meant 
that  he  had  not  lingered  over  his  decision.  If  he  had  not 
made  up  his  mind  to  abide  by  the  doctor's  advice  and 
hers,  he  would  still  be  worrying  the  subject  like  a  dog 
getting  to  the  marrow  of  a  bone.  She  undressed  at  once, 
her  mind  working  swiftly  over  the  details  of  her  plan, 
which  had  now  shot  to  full  stature.  She  would  write  her 
letter  before  breakfast.  When  the  proper  moment  came, 
she  would  divulge  it  all  to  Andrew  Lockerby.  She  found 
herself  almost  loving  him,  what  with  her  pity  and  her  new 
power  to  direct  his  life  to  his  own  benefit.  The  old  ache 
of  evaded  responsibility  was  soothed.  It  hadn't  been 
possible  for  her  to  do  everything.  She  had  done  what  she 
could.  Now  she  was  having  a  chance  to  make  up,  a  little, 
for  what  she  had  been  forced  to  neglect. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

THE  spring  was  late,  for  the  winter  had  been  long  and 
as  hard  as  the  prophets  said:  thereby  giving  fresh 
dignity  to  the  evidence — much  trusted  in  Lost  Valley — 
of  blue  goose-bones,  heavier  coats  on  furred  animals,  and 
thicker  pin-feathers  on  hens.  When  the  first  buds  blurred 
the  trees,  Madge  Lockerby  grew  restless.  One  day  she 
smelt  the  spring — that  first  authentic  odor  none  can 
mistake — and  then  she  could  no  longer  be  held  in  Siloam. 
"I  can't  wait  another  day,"  she  said  to  herself.  And  she 
lay  in  wait,  that  evening,  for  Sarah  Martin's  first  sign  of 
leisure. 

"It's  no  use,"  Madge  began,  as  soon  as  Miss  Martin 
leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  folded  her  hands.  "I've 
got  to  go  back  and  get  the  house  in  order,  ready  to  leave, 
and  then  make  my  own  plans." 

"  I've  let  you  alone  about  it,  Madge,"  the  older  woman 
replied  patiently.  "There's  no  use  in  deafening  young 
people  with  talk.  You  only  put  their  backs  up.  But  you 
did  so  well  with  the  little  tots  this  winter  when  Martha 
Partridge  was  sick,  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  feel  you  had 
the  vocation  to  be  a  teacher,  after  all." 

"No."  Madge  shook  her  head  firmly.  "I  didn't  mind 
it  for  a  while.  But  what  really  kept  me  going  was  the 
children's  being  so  funny.  Sometimes  I  could  hardly 
wait  until  recess  to  get  away  and  laugh  till  I  cried." 

"Humph!  Scholars  are  always  funny.  They're  just 
as  ridiculous  at  sixteen  as  they  are  at  six." 

"I  shouldn't  want  them  being  funny  at  sixteen.  It 

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LOST  VALLEY 

would  just  irritate  me.  Besides,  they  couldn't  say  such 
killing  things.  No,  I  can  get  on  with  the  little  tots,  but 
I'd  never  have  the  patience  for  the  older  ones." 

"Would  you  have  patience  enough  to  do  settlement 
work?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  After  all,  Miss  Martin,  you  know 
that  if  Susie  Benner  can't  learn  her  declensions,  it  isn't 
going  to  be  the  end  of  her.  Her  parents  will  look  after  her 
somehow,  and  she'll  find  some  way  to  work  her  life  out, 
either  in  the  store,  helping  her  mother,  or  getting  married 
and  looking  after  her  own  home.  Your  responsibility 
ends  when  you've  given  her  a  bad  mark.  But  down  there, 
where  I  think  of  going,  you've  got  their  lives  more  in  your 
hands.  There  are  things  worse  than  bad  marks  that  it 
may  be  in  your  power  to  save  them  from.  It's  life  and 
death,  perhaps — misery  or  happiness,  anyhow." 

"Well,  Madge,  I'm  older  than  you,  and  I  know  that  you 
have  to  be  either  very  young  or  dreadfully  conceited,  to 
enjoy  having  power  over  other  people's  lives — those  that 
don't  belong  to  you,  I  mean.  I  don't  think  you're  over- 
conceited,  but  you  are  pretty  young.  You  might  get  over 
your  notion  of  wanting  to  play  the  Almighty  down  in  the 
slums." 

Madge  flushed.  "I'm  not  trying  to  set  myself  up.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  I  wouldn't  be  any  good  to  Miss  Powers,  anyway. 
But  I  know  I  couldn't  bear  to  teach  all  my  life.  And 
I've  got  to  do  something.  I  can't  stay  in  the  Valley  very 
long — I  see  that  now.  If  I'm  any  good,  I'll  be  good  for 
some  practical  purpose,  just  as  a  human  being  who's  been 
through  a  good  deal  that's  queer,  and  is  interested  in  other 
human  beings." 

"  Maybe.    I'm  not  trying  to  influence  you." 

"No.  You've  been  splendid.  I  don't  believe  anyone 
ever  was  so  kind  as  you.  But  there's  a  lot  to  do  at 
home.  I  think  I'd  better  go  over  and  have  a  look 
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LOST  VALLEY 

round,  and  perhaps  move  over  this  week,  if  the  weather 
keeps  warm." 

Miss  Martin  fingered  the  fringe  of  the  tablecloth  that 
brushed  her  hand. 

"Madge,  we've  never  talked  about  it  since  you  got  over 
the  first  shock.  It  seemed  better  to  say  as  little  as  pos 
sible.  But  I  can't  let  you  go  over  there  without  knowing 
one  thing.  Is  what  Andrew  Lockerby  did  last  November 
going  to  haunt  you  when  you're  over  in  the  Valley?  Be 
cause,  if  so,  I  can't  have  you  go.  Not  to  stay  any  time." 

Madge  bit  her  lips  for  a  little  before  replying. 

"To  be  quite  frank,  Miss  Martin,  I  don't  know.  But 
I  can  tell  after  I've  been  over.  I'll  know  how  it  seems  to 
me  to  be  in  the  house.  I  don't  think  I'm  a  nervous  per 
son.  Nothing  happened  in  the  house,  anyway.  It  was  in 
that  old  broken-down  shed  we  didn't  use.  I  could  have  it 
pulled  down,  if  necessary.  Of  course  I  can't  be  sure. 
But  I  think  I'll  go  over  to-morrow.  If  it  seems  to  me  that 
I  don't  want  to  stay,  for  any  reason,  then  I'll  come  back 
at  night.  I  promise  you.  I  shall  be  able  to  tell." 

"All  right.    That's  more  sensible." 

Madge  bit  her  lip  again.  "Perhaps  I  may  as  well  tell 
you,  Miss  Martin.  ...  I  haven't  wanted  to  talk  about  it 
any  more  than  you  have.  I  went  all  to  pieces  when  it 
happened,  and  after  I  pulled  through  that,  I  didn't  go 
back  to  it  for  fear  of  breaking  down  again.  It's  queer  I 
stood  Lola's  death  so  much  better  than  Uncle  Andrew's. 
Probably  it  was  because  what  he  did  came  on  top  of  so 
much  else.  It  was  the  last  straw.  And  I  didn't  under 
stand.  I  fretted.  I  thought  he  hadn't  trusted  me.  But 
I've  worked  it  out  a  little,  these  last  few  months,  and  I 
think  I  understand  better.  Just  at  first,  the  shock  was 
awful.  I'd  been  talking  to  him  that  very  night,  persuad 
ing  him  to  have  the  operation,  and  he'd  promised  to  de 
cide  by  the  next  day.  The  money  was  worrying  him,  and 
26  391 


LOST  VALLEY 

•» 

I  was  thinking  of  a  plan.  I  didn't  want  to  tell  him  about 
it  until  I  had  it  clear  in  my  own  mind.  I  remember  I 
stepped  outside  and  thought  it  out  in  the  starlight.  It 
must  have  been  then  that  he  got  out  of  bed.  ..." 

She  shook  the  tears  from  her  eyes  impatiently,  and  went 
on.  "  It  was  the  feeling  that  if  I  had  talked  to  him  about 
my  plan,  perhaps  he'd  have  felt  encouraged.  Oh,  you 
can  bear  almost  anything,  if  it  isn't  your  fault ! .  . .  But  the 
more  I  think  back,  the  surer  I  am  that  it  wouldn't  have 
made  any  difference.  Uncle  wouldn't  have  let  Mr.  Law 
rence  help,  I'm  afraid.  Everything  he  said  to  me  after 
we'd  made  it  up  looks  different  to  me  now  from  what  it 
did  at  the  time.  He  was  asking  about  my  health,  and  my 
plans  for  the  future  if  I  should  be  thrown  on  my  own  re 
sources,  and  telling  me  things  about  the  place.  I  believe 
he  had  made  up  his  mind,  anyhow.  I  don't  know  whether 
I  could  have  changed  him,  though  of  course  he  didn't 
know  anything  about  that  nice  letter  Mr.  Lawrence  wrote 
me." 

"You  do  hold  your  tongue,  Madge!  I  didn't  know 
you  corresponded  with  John  Lawrence." 

"I  don't.  But  the  money  you  sent  me  was  to  pay  back 
money  I'd  borrowed  in  New  York.  Mr.  Reilly  got  it 
from  Arthur  Burton,  and  he  wouldn't  promise  to  return 
it.  Mr.  Reilly  was  a  very  strange  person,  though  he 
certainly  was  kind.  Of  course  I  couldn't  take  money 
from  Mr.  Burton,  so  I  sent  it  to  Mr.  Lawrence  to  return 
to  him.  Mr.  Burton  was  visiting  them  in  Chicago.  John 
Lawrence  did  return  it  to  him  for  me,  and  he  wrote  me  a 
beautiful  letter.  After  that  letter,  I  know  he'd  have  been 
glad  to  lend  me  money  for  Uncle's  operation." 

"Probably  he  would.    He's  certainly  got  enough." 

Madge  did  not  notice  the  interruption.  "I  don't  want 
to  be  asking  sympathy  under  false  pretenses,  Miss  Martin. 
I  couldn't  talk,  last  November — nor  much,  since.  I  guess 
392 


LOST  VALLEY 

you  thought  I  grieved  over  Uncle  more  than  I  really  did. 
You  can't  make  up  for  a  lifetime  of  indifference  just  in 
two  or  three  days.  What  broke  me  up  more  than  anything 
was  feeling  that  if  I'd  spoken,  I  might  just  possibly  have 
saved  him.  Of  course  I  never  dreamed  what  he  was 
planning,  but  perhaps  I  ought  to  have  realized  better. 
It's  no  use  for  me  to  say  that  I  miss  Uncle  out  of  my 
life.  I  don't.  But  I  blamed  myself  dreadfully  for  not 
talking  things  out  more  that  last  night  with  him.  Then 
if  he'd  killed  himself,  it  wouldn't  have  been  my  fault." 

"You're  very  far  from  perfect,  Madge,  aren't  you? 
But  even  so,  I  don't  know  as  you  need  to  pile  it  on.  You've 
got  more  heart  than  you  make  out." 

"No,  I  haven't!"  Madge  threw  back  her  head  de 
fiantly.  "At  least,  not  the  way  you  mean.  I've  hardly 
ever  had  a  kind  word  from  Uncle  Andrew,  all  my  life.  It 
was  terrible  of  him  to  speak  to  me  as  he  did,  to  treat  me 
so,  when  I  came  home  after  Lola  died.  I  did  draw  nearer 
to  him  last  summer.  If  he'd  lived,  I  might  have  grown 
fond  of  him — provided  he  gave  me  a  chance.  But  there 
was  a  lot  to  get  over,  and  there's  no  use  pretending  I'd 
had  time  to  get  over  it  when  he  made  away  with  himself. 
I've  got  a  heart,  Miss  Martin!  I've  often  wished  I  hadn't. 
But  it  takes  kindness  to  make  me  love  people — and 
justice." 

Sarah  pulled  hard  at  the  fringe.  "I  don't  know  what 
way  you're  headed,  Madge,  but  I  believe  the  best  thing 
that  could  happen  to  you  would  be  to  fall  in  love  with  the 
right  man.  It  never  would  have  done  for  me,  but  you're 
different.  You're  not  what  I'd  call  a  simple  character. 
You're  the  kind  of  person  that  would  be  brought  out  best 
by  falling  in  love,  I  believe." 

Madge  rose  from  her  chair  and  paced  the  room.  The 
color  came  and  went  in  her  face — as  if  the  blood  struggled 
with  inhibiting  pallor.  She  pressed  the  palms  of  her 

393 


LOST  VALLEY 

hands  against  her  temples  once  or  twice,  then  stroked  the 
heavy  strands  of  hair  above  her  ears.  Finally  she  stopped 
before  Miss  Martin  and  kicked  delicately  with  the  toe  of 
her  shoe  at  the  carpet. 

"I  never  thought  I  should  say  anything  about  it,"  she 
began,  then  stopped  a  moment.  "But  every  one  of  these 
troubles  came  because  I  had  fallen  in  love — every  one. 
Even  so,  I  don't  regret  it.  It's  past,  it's  over,  it  doesn't 
hurt  any  more,  and  it's  taught  me  a  lot.  But  when  you 
say  I  ought  to  fall  in  love,  it's  like  your  telling  me  I  ought 
to  walk,  with  my  hands  tied,  into  the  Mohican  above 
Bartlett's  Falls." 

"Was  it  young  Burton?"  Miss  Martin  let  go  the 
question,  as  a  mother  might,  on  the  full  tide  of  confession. 

"Yes.  It  was  Arthur  Burton.  He  never  knew,  of 
course.  At  least,  I  don't  see  how  he  could  have." 

"You  saw  him  in  New  York." 

"Yes.  But  it  was  all  before  that.  I've  been  getting 
over  it  ever  since  I  first  saw  him  in  New  York.  I  am  over 
it.  I  honestly  am.  But  I  don't  care  to  try  it  again,  thank 
you." 

"They  say" — and  speaking  at  second  hand  robbed 
Sarah  of  none  of  her  assurance — "that  you  don't  get  over 
your  first  love  as  easily  as  all  that." 

"I  don't  know  what  they  say.  And  there  was  nothing 
easy  about  it.  Once — just  once — I  thought  my  heart 
was  stopping.  I'll  never  forget  it  if  I  live  to  be  a  hun 
dred."  She  closed  her  eyes  an  instant  on  the  scene:  her 
self  and  Desmond  Reilly  sitting  at  her  window,  high  above 
the  roofs,  and  Desmond  dealing  the  blow.  Then  she  shook 
off  the  vision  and  opened  her  eyes.  "I  may  be  different 
from  other  women.  I  don't  know.  But  it's  over,  with  me. 
And  I  don't  hate  him.  If  I  hated  him,  I'd  be  a  lot  nearer 
loving  him  than  I  am." 

"Was  it  his  fault,  Madge?" 
394 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Not  as  far  as  I  can  see.  He  never  did  or  said  anything 
to  lead  me  on.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  falling 
in  love  without  any  encouragement,  but  I'm  not.  I'd 
rather  remember  it  so.  There's  nothing  I'd  have  blotted 
out.  He  wasn't  as  kind  in  New  York  as  he  was  in  Lost 
Valley.  And,  in  a  queer  way,  his  not  being  kind  helped. 
Helped  me,  I  mean,  to  see  him  the  way  he  really  was — 
not  the  way  I'd  thought  of  his  being.  I'm  glad  he  wasn't 
kind.  It  hurt  at  the  time,  but  it  showed  me  we  could 
never  be  real  friends.  He'd  never  understand  a  Lockerby. 
Yes,  I'm  glad.  But" — the  flush  had  its  way  now,  and 
from  chin  to  forehead  she  was  crimson — "if  Arthur  Bur 
ton  had  ever  made  love  to  me,  I  don't  know  as  I  could 
bear  that.  It  would  be  too  dreadful.  If  he'd — kissed  me, 
for  instance." 

"I  should  hope  you  wouldn't  have  let  him,"  Sarah  re 
plied  austerely. 

Madge  laughed.  Her  white  teeth,  her  deep-shining 
eyes,  the  blush  that  lingered,  made  her  face  almost  in 
tolerably  brilliant  to  Sarah's  eyes. 

"  I  don't  know  any  more  about  all  that  from  experience 
than  you  do,  Miss  Martin.  Perhaps  not  so  much.  But 
I've  seen  enough  of  men  and  women  to  know  that  they 
do  kiss  each  other  sometimes,  and  that  a  girl  can't  always 
help  it.  I  don't  think  it  would  have  been  any  disgrace  if 
Arthur  Burton  had  kissed  me.  If  I'm  glad  he  didn't,  it's 
for  reasons  I  can't  explain  very  well.  I  don't  want  to 
talk  about  it  any  more.  Only  I  felt  you  had  a  right  to 
know  why  I  can't  bear  being  told  I  ought  to  fall  in  love. 
I've  been  through  it,  and  I  don't  care  to  experience  it 
again." 

"A  good  many  people  seem  to  enjoy  it,  even  if  it  doesn't 
turn  out  happily."  Sarah  spoke  reflectively.  "  I  remember 
Lizzie  Fessenden  always  thought  a  heap  more  of  herself 
after  that  Boston  lawyer  jilted  her.  I  guess  he  had  kissed 

895 


LOST  VALLEY 

Lizzie,  if  the  truth  were  known.  Lizzie's  older  than  I  am, 
and  I  don't  suppose  any  of  the  young  people  consider  her 
a  romantic  figure  any  more.  But  I  can  remember  she 
chilled  me  to  the  bone  once,  at  a  time  when  there  was 
some  nonsense  being  talked  about  a  man  who  never  looked 
at  me  or  I  at  him.  She  drew  me  off  into  a  corner  at  a 
church  sociable  and  said, '  Sarah,  love  is  terrible  as  an  army 
with  banners.'  I'd  known  the  text  all  my  life,  of  course, 
but  it  had  never  occurred  to  me  that  the  Song  of  Solomon 
could  have  anything  to  do  with  me.  It  didn't,  of  course; 
but  it  was  a  long  time  before  I  got  it  out  of  my  head,  just 
the  same.  There  are  some  very  queer  things  in  the  Old 
Testament.  Fortunately  they  don't  preach  out  of  it  as 
much  as  they  used  to.  Now,  why  should  I  run  on  about 
poor  Lizzie  Fessenden?" 

She  had  run  on  about  Lizzie  Fessenden  because  she  did 
not  know  what  to  say  to  Madge  Lockerby.  It  was  hard 
to  be  silent  as  a  stone,  harder  still  to  express  sympathy. 

4 'Terrible  as  an  army  with  banners,3"  Madge  repeated. 
"I  like  that,  Miss  Martin.  It's  true.  I  didn't  remem 
ber  it." 

"Well,  there  you  are,  Madge.  It  never  made  any  sense 
to  me.  I  hope  you'll  marry  sometime,  and  marry  the 
right  man.  It  won't  be  anyone  in  these  parts,  but  you 
might  find  him  in  Boston.  I  confess  I  did  wonder  if 
there'd  ever  be  anything  between  you  and  young  Burton 
— after  you  first  mentioned  seeing  him  in  New  York. 
But  you  talked  so  much  more  about  your  old  Chinaman 
that  it  put  me  off  the  track.  I  even  wondered  about  that 
other  man  with  the  Irish  name — but  then  I  pulled  up. 
It's  always  seemed  to  me  almost  as  impertinent  to  think 
questions  about  people's  private  affairs  as  to  ask  them." 

"Mr.  Reilly?  Why,  I  hardly  knew  him  at  all.  He's  a 
friend  of  Arthur  Burton's — only  he  was  very  kind  about 
Lola  and  all.  I'd  be  glad  to  see  him  any  time,  though  I 
396 


LOST  VALLEY 

don't  suppose  I  ever  shall.    New  York  is  awfully  full  of 
people." 

Madge  walked  over  to  the  door,  and  finished  speaking 
from  the  threshold.  "Even  Siloam  is  too  full  of  people. 
I  want  to  get  back  to  the  Valley  for  a  little  while.  If  I 
find  I'm  disturbed  at  all,  I'll  come  back.  But  I  don't 
expect  to  be.  I'm  not  superstitious.  And  the  Valley  is 
so  full  of  other  things.  ...  I  need  it  for  a  while.  I  need 
the  rest  of  it.  Especially  if  I've  got  to  go  out  into  the 
world  again.  There  are  all  my  mother's  things  to  look 
over,"  she  added  vaguely,  irrelevantly. 

"I'm  going  to  bed  now,  to  get  an  early  start."  She 
nodded  at  Miss  Martin,  who  still  sat  by  her  fringed  table 
cloth.  "Don't  you  worry  about  me." 

"I'm  not  going  to.  I've  been  a  long  time  making  up 
my  mind  about  you,  Madge,  but  I've  come  to  the  con 
clusion  that  you  can  take  care  of  yourself.  Better,  per 
haps,  than  your  mother  could.  She  was  a  delicate  little 
thing.  You've  got  the  Lockerby  constitution." 

"  I  wish  I  were  more  like  her." 

"You'll  get  along  better,  I  dare  say,  for  being  part 
Lockerby.  You've  stood  up  to  Lost  Valley  better  than 
Mary  ever  did.  She  was  too  good  for  the  place." 

"There — you  see,  Miss  Martin.  You  don't  understand. 
You've  always  hated  the  Lockerbys,  and  the  Valley.  I 
don't  blame  you.  I  guess  she  was  too  good  for  it.  But 
I've  got  it  in  me,  and  if  you've  got  it  in  you,  the  Valley 
has  a  power.  It  can  do  things  for  me  it  probably  never 
could  have  done  for  my  mother.  You  just  ask  John 
Lawrence.  He  knows  the  whole  thing." 

"I'm  not  intimate  with  him.  Good  night."  The  dis 
paraging  phrase  had  escaped  Miss  Martin  without  her 
intention,  but  she  was  not  one  to  eat  her  words  unneces 
sarily.  Besides,  she  rather  thought  the  Lockerby  blood 
would  enable  Madge  to  bear  up. 

397 


LOST  VALLEY 

It  was  the  absence  rather  than  the  presence  of  any 
spirit  or  phantom  that  surprised  Madge  on  her  return  to 
the  Valley.  The  house  was  empty  even  of  ghosts.  She 
could  not  understand,  at  first,  why  such  constant  and  pro 
longed  habitation  should  have  left  nothing  behind  it. 
Perhaps  it  was  not  strange  about  Granny :  there  was  so 
little  left  of  her  mind  to  die;  and  the  body  was  trash  you 
cleared  away.  Anything  that  was  really  Granny  had  for 
saken  that  home  years  since.  But  Andrew  Lockerby  had 
passed  from  the  full  violence  of  life  to  a  death  as  violent. 
There  should  be  shreds  of  that  unsatisfied  and  bitter  per 
sonality  still  clinging  to  the  place  where  he  had  built  up 
his  experience  of  earth.  Yet  it  was  not  so.  When  Madge 
stepped  from  kitchen  to  living  room,  from  living  room  to 
chamber,  she  remembered  only  the  things  that  had  been 
part  of  her  own  secret  life  unshared  with  her  housemates. 
Neither  the  woodshed  where  Granny  had  fallen,  nor  the 
crazy  outbuilding  where  Andrew  Lockerby  had  solved  his 
problem,  was  more  terrible  to  her  than  it  had  ever  been  hi 
early  girlhood.  She  found  herself  standing  again  in  the 
latter  place  with  no  emotion  but  a  vague  and  tender 
regret.  After  that  trial  of  herself,  she  felt  safe  from  shock. 
She  got  Jake  Leffingwell  to  sleep  below,  in  Andrew's  bed 
room,  because,  for  weeks,  she  feared  her  own  night-fears. 
But  when  she  woke  at  night,  it  was  to  natural  reflections. 
Yes,  all  that  life  had  utterly  passed  away — "sunk  without 
trace."  She  was  not  to  be  haunted. 

Part  of  this  immunity  was  due  unquestionably  to  the 
recent  months  in  Siloam,  and  to  long  cerebration,  con 
scious  and  unconscious,  under  Sarah  Martin's  roof. 
Madge  remained  content  not  to  know  why  Andrew  had 
chosen  to  step  out.  As  she  told  Miss  Martin,  she  had 
convinced  herself  at  last  that  it  was  not  her  fault,  and 
that  sufficed.  There  was  probably  no  healthy  reason  why 
Madge  should  explore  Andrew  Lockerby's  inscrutability 
398 


LOST  VALLEY 

farther  than  she  did.  I  take  it  that  Andrew  Lockerby's 
suicide  was  the  first  luxury  he  had  permitted  himself  for 
many  years.  He  refused  to  abase  himself  to  charity; 
refused  to  exist  as  a  mere  dwelling  house  of  pain.  He  had 
cast  up  his  accounts  and  felt  that  no  living  creature  was 
his  legitimate  creditor  for  that  humiliation  or  that  suffer 
ing.  I  doubt  if  Andrew  considered  that  he  was  cheating 
God;  I  imagine  he  believed  himself  to  be  diddling  the 
Devil.  He  did — and  knew  he  did — a  grim  service  to 
Madge  by  vanishing;  but  in  all  probability  his  deepest 
satisfaction  came  from  consulting,  once  in  a  way,  only  his 
own  desires. 

Madge  seemed,  involuntarily,  to  take  up  her  inner  life 
at  a  point  that  antedated  Arthur  Burton's  advent.  She 
walked  again  with  those  tender  thoughts  of  her  mother, 
those  wistful  desires  for  an  imagined  world,  those  faint 
guesses  at  beauty  and  wisdom.  Some  of  her  dreams  she 
had  laid  away  forever;  some  she  kept,  as  if  they  might 
some  day  serve.  She  sorted  them  as  she  sorted  the 
contents  of  Mary  Lockerby's  trunk.  She  did  not  unlock 
her  memories  of  Arthur;  and  though  she  went  more  and 
more  frequently  to  Barker's  Hill  and  the  lower  reaches  of 
Lost  Brook,  she  never  once,  all  the  long  month  of  May, 
took  the  path  that  led  to  the  glade  below  the  cider  mill. 
She  was  curiously  happy,  and  curiously  able  to  order  her 
thoughts  as  she  pleased. 

I  have  figured  her  perhaps  as  moving  in  a  kind  of  trance, 
yet  she  had  never  been  busier.  Her  future  was  all  to  be 
decided.  Miss  Powers  had  written  her  kindly,  and  prom 
ised  to  do  what  she  could.  It  was  clear  that  she  must 
have  some  kind  of  training  before  she  could  fit  into  any 
niche  down  there.  Perhaps  some  courses  at  Simmons. 
They  would  have  to  talk  it  all  over,  and  discuss  ways  and 
means.  Madge  might  have  to  go  to  work  for  a  time. 
What  she  needed  to  do  first  was  to  sell  the  place  if  possible. 

399 


LOST  VALLEY 

She  treated  the  farm  as  something  to  be  committed  to 
other  hands,  she  knew  not  under  what  conditions.  Jake 
Leffingwell  kept  up  the  work  as  he  could,  but  she  did  not 
worry  over  what  could  not  be  done.  She  would  not  start 
any  crops  this  year.  The  cows  were  attended  to,  but  be 
yond  that  she  kept  Jake  busy  chiefly  over  repairs.  There 
were  pasture  fences  to  be  mended,  and  all  manner  of  patch 
ing  to  be  done  on  the  farm  buildings.  Madge's  controlling 
instinct,  in  truth,  was  to  spruce  the  place  up,  to  make  it 
trim  and  tidy  to  the  eye,  conceal  its  poverty  with  neatness. 
Hobbledehoy  Jake  obeyed  her  deeply  feminine  behests 
with  fervor.  He  had  always  admired  Madge;  and  since 
she  had  spent  a  year  outside  the  Valley,  she  had  become 
to  him  Romance  itself.  He  called  her  "Miss  Lockerby," 
in  these  days. 

"I  s'pose,  if  you  ain't  goin'  to  plant,  it  means  you're 
goin'  to  quit,"  he  said  over  a  pail  of  whitewash — new 
work,  this  was,  for  him,  both  exciting  in  detail  and  re 
motely  tragic  in  implication. 

Madge  stood  above  him,  measuring  wall  space  with  her 
eye.  "What  else  can  I  do,  Jake?  I  couldn't  run  the  place 
alone.  I  don't  think  it's  much  of  a  farm,  anyway.  Uncle 
thought  its  main  value  was  wood  and  pasture  lots." 

Jake  dropped  his  brush  and  raised  an  eloquent  knobby 
finger.  "Your  uncle  got  discouraged,  Miss  Lockerby. 
There's  no  prime  farming  land  in  Lost  Valley,  but  this 
farm's  as  good  as  any  hereabouts  —  if  a  man  put  his 
strength  into  it."  Jake  was  hardly  a  man  yet,  but  he 
had  grown  hi  dignity  since  becoming  the  only  male  on 
the  Lockerby  place.  "It's  an  awful  pity  not  to  plant 
corn  and  oats,  at  least.  Of  course  if  you're  goin'  to  sell, 
I  c'n  see  why  you  don't.  But  I  hate  to  watch  it  all  go 
faller.  Seems  as  if  'twouldn't  never  be  a  home  for  any 
body  again." 

Madge  smiled.  "  I'm  sure  it  looks  more  like  a  home  than 
400 


LOST  VALLEY 

it  ever  did  before — with  all  the  time  you've  put  in  re 
pairing  things." 

"Doo-dabs!"  said  Jake  sepulchrally.  "This  is  all  right 
for  womenfolks,  but  what  a  man  looks  at  is  his  crops. 
What  makes  a  home  out  of  a  farm  is  what's  sown  and 
reaped.  Folks  can't  eat  whitewash/5 

"It  takes  men  and  women  both  to  make  this  world," 
Madge  answered  absently.  She  was  longing  to  get  away 
to  Barker's  Hill.  "You  may  find  out  some  day,  Jake, 
that  it  pays  to  keep  women  contented.^ 

She  was  still  staring  at  the  desired  slopes  of  the  hill  and 
did  not  notice  the  crimson  flush  that  swept  over  his 
features,  turning  the  pimply  surface  to  a  volcanic  land 
scape  in  miniature.  When  she  turned  again  to  look  at 
him,  his  head  was  bent  so  that  she  only  saw  the  thatch  of 
sunburnt  hair. 

"They'd  ought  to  be  kept  contented."  The  words 
came  strangled  from  his  deep  involvement  with  brush, 
pail,  and  mother  earth.  "All  I  mean  is,  it  seems  an  awful 
pity  to  pretend  to  fix  a  place  up  when  you're  really  letting 
it  run  to  seed.  It's  like  those  fool  girls  that  put  corn- 
starch  on  their  faces  when  their  shoes  are  all  shabbed  out. 
It's  none  o'  my  business,  but — hard  as  your  uncle  tried — 
I'd  try  harder  if  you'd  let  me.  I  tell  you,  somethin'  could 
be  done  with  this  here  farm!"  His  voice  rose  hysterically. 

Here  was  real  pain,  and  in  a  most  unlikely  place.  Hu 
man  pity  pushed  aside  the  longing  for  Barker's  Hill. 
Madge  turned  her  back  on  the  west. 

"I'm  sorry  you  feel  that  way  about  it.  Are  you  really 
fond  of  the  farm,  Jake?" 

"I  ain't  fond  of  anythin'  so  dumb  as  a  passel  of  earth," 
he  answered  stubbornly.  "But  I  always  did  think  I'd 
like  a  chance  at  it.  If  a  man  give  his  whole  time  to  it,  I 
bet  he  could  make  somethin'  out  of  it.  If  he  was  young 
an'  wa'n't  lame.  It's  been  Lockerby  land  an  awful  long 

401 


LOST  VALLEY 

while.  Land  ain't  like  some  things,  Miss  Lockerby. 
You  put  your  sweat  into  it  for  as  many  years  as  I've  done, 
man  an'  boy" — Madge  bit  back  a  smile,  for  he  was  solemn 
in  his  assumptions — "an5  you  hate  to  see  it  all  come  to 
nothin'.  I'd  kind  of  expected  to  go  on  here  a  good  spell 
longer.  I  had  an  idea  of  raisin*  buckwheat  this  year. 
Lockerby's  has  been  more  like  my  own  than  home.  It's 
the  only  place  I  ever  worked  on." 

"I'm  sorry,  Jake."  Her  voice  was  low  and  gentle. 
"I'm  awfully  sorry.  But  you  see,  don't  you,  that  I  can't 
run  the  place?  I  couldn't  even  pay  you  what  a  man  ought 
to  be  paid.  It  wouldn't  be  a  living  for  you — doing  it  all 
single-handed,  as  you'd  have  to.  There's  Jacob  Part 
ridge's  mortgage,  you  know.  It  isn't  as  if  I  owned  the 
place  outright.  I've  got  to  sell  if  I  can,  and  go  away  and 
make  my  own  living  somewhere." 

"You'll  get  married,  Miss  Lockerby."  He  was  very 
grim.  "You'll  have  everything — an'  I  hope  you  will. 
Nobody'd  expect  you  to  stay  in  Lost  Valley.  You'll  go, 
an'  I'll  have  to  leave  the  farm." 

"I  wish  you  could  stay  on  the  place,  Jake.  Indeed  I 
do.  But  probably  whoever  buys  it  won't  farm  it  much, 
anyway." 

"There's  precious  few  folks  who'd  buy  it  I  would  work 
for.  I've  had  my  own  say  about  a  lot  of  things,  the  last 
year.  It  would  be  like  givin'  up  somethin'  of  my  own  to 
take  orders  from  a  stranger  on  this  place." 

Jake  gathered  up  his  pail  and  brush,  and  started  for 
the  chicken  houses.  He  brushed  his  arm  across  his  face 
as  he  went,  and  Madge  was  aghast  to  see  the  gesture. 
It  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  anyone  not  bound  to 
those  crude  acres  by  inheritance  could  of  his  own  free  will 
come  to  care  for  them.  Had  Jake  Leffingwell  turned  up, 
in  his  weary  plowing,  the  precious  sprig  of  hope?  Here 
was  a  youth  who  would  actually  have  been  ready  to  sell 
402 


LOST  VALLEY 

his  manhood  to  the  Lockerby  farm,  and  find  pride  added 
yearly  to  his  low  wage.  She  didn't  know  what  Jake 
would  do.  His  brothers  worked  the  I^effingwell  place. 
Most  young  men  were  only  too  glad  of  an  excuse  to  leave 
Lost  Valley.  Jake  Leffingwell,  apparently,  had  asked 
only  to  stay  on  and  take  over  more  and  more  work  from 
Andrew  Lockerby.  Madge  could  not  realize,  perhaps, 
that  Valley  stock  showed  its  tenacity  in  many  ways. 
Again,  John  Lawrence  would  have  understood.  He 
would  have  understood  better,  too,  than  Madge  how 
subtly  the  vision  of  a  long  servitude  to  Andrew  and 
Andrew's  soil  had  been  gilded  for  the  lad  by  the  constant 
presence  of  Madge  Lockerby  herself.  Jake's  genuine  faith 
in  the  possibilities  of  "  Lockerby  V  had  been  reinforced 
by  Madge's  own  heirship.  He  wasn't  going  to  admit,  at 
first,  that  her  people's  land  was  poor.  Then  Jake's  real 
passion  for  the  soil  took  him.  The  farm  on  which  he  had 
worked  early  and  late  resumed  his  soul.  Jake  was  archaic 
and  natural  against  great  odds.  All  his  blind  adherence 
to  Madge  just  barely  enabled  him  to  endure  the  fallowness 
of  those  familiar  lots. 

On  Barker's  Hill,  Madge  drank  of  her  contemplative 
cup.  She  was  not  aware  that  what  one  takes  at  first  as  a 
tonic,  one  may  end  by  taking  as  a  drug.  She  had  fallen 
to  be  a  Valley-worshiper.  The  perception  of  its  beauty, 
surrender  to  its  visual  magic,  had  become  an  over-inveter 
ate  habit.  Madge  had  distilled  its  influence  too  finely. 
She  had  come  to  see  the  Valley  not  quite  truly.  Deceived 
by  the  perspective  into  which  it  fell,  from  her  eyrie  among 
the  thorn  trees,  deceived  perhaps  by  her  own  freedom  to 
escape,  she  forgot  many  stark  realities.  Jake  LefBngwell 
was  the  real  servant  of  Lost  Valley,  content  to  struggle 
with  rocks  and  poverty  of  soil,  never  lifting  up  his  eyes  to 
see  its  beauty,  getting  his  warrant  and  sanction  out  of  the 
earth  that  stained  his  hands,  the  stones  that  bruised  his 

403 


LOST  VALLEY 

feet.  He  was  more  truly  and  mystically  its  slave  than 
either  Lawrence,  who  had  given  up  hope  for  it,  or  Madge, 
who  drew  from  it  her  spirit's  wine  but  not  her  spirit's 
bread.  Jake's  revelations  troubled  Madge's  reverie,  that 
sunset  time.  It  was  well  for  her  that  it  was  so;  and  be 
neath  the  irritation  of  the  dreamer  disturbed,  she  knew  it. 

Her  impulses,  healthy  as  a  dumb  animal's,  taught  her 
that  she  was  like  to  turn  an  elixir  into  poison,  since  her 
ecstasies  were  rooted  in  a  partial  truth.  She  had  reached 
the  limit  of  what  she  could  take  honestly.  Since  she  could 
not  in  the  end  give  herself  to  the  Valley,  she  must  not 
make  a  religion  of  it,  or  think  that  she  had  found  God  by 
shutting  her  eyes  to  ugliness.  "I  guess  you  only  find 
God  when  He  accounts  for  everything,"  she  murmurea  to 
herself.  "I  can  see  the  Valley  as  Arthur  Burton  saw  it, 
but  I  can't  see  it  the  way  Jake  does.  It  means  I've  got  to 
look  elsewhere.  I'm  happy  in  a  queer  way  up  here,  but 
I'm  not  really  satisfied.  I  guess  even  Jee  Gam  would 
say" — she  whispered — "that  Barker's  Hill  has  been  good 
for  me.  I  don't  know  how  I'd  have  got  through  without 
it.  But  it  would  wear  off,  in  time.  I'm  not  good  enough. 
I  guess  I  wasn't  made  to  contemplate." 

She  smiled,  as  she  started  down  toward  the  farm,  to 
think  how  Sarah  Martin  would  agree  with  her.  But  she 
was  not  going  to  admit  it  to  Sarah. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

JUNE  came,  peerless.  Never,  it  seemed  to  Madge,  had 
the  season  brought  such  gifts  of  bland  warmth  and 
fragrance,  of  uncorrupted  light  from  sun  and  moon.  Day 
duplicated  day  as  in  Eden.  One  came  to  think  that  even 
thundershowers  were  a  myth.  Now  that  she  knew  she 
must  go,  it  hurt  her.  She  grew  capricious  with  her  own 
well-matured  plans — put  off  Miss  Powers,  put  off  nego 
tiations  with  the  purchaser  who  had  been  found  for  her, 
exulted  in  every  week  she  filched  from  reason.  Madge 
could  have  strayed  like  a  Maenad  on  the  hills,  had  she 
been  of  other  blood.  Two  things  saved  her  from  a  kind 
of  cruelty  of  joy:  the  spectacle  of  Jake  LefHngwell,  and 
the  knowledge  that  she  had  one  memory  yet  to  bury, 
down  where  Lost  Brook  widened  to  a  dappled  pool. 

Something  was  bound  to  break  the  spell  and  drive  her 
to  conclusions.  The  gesture  came,  as  it  had  to,  from 
without,  half  violent,  half  soothing,  something  between 
the  smart  blow  of  a  staff  and  the  waving  of  a  fairy  wand. 
On  a  Saturday  morning  in  mid-June,  Madge  bade  Jake 
Leffingwell  leave  his  tinkering  of  the  chicken  houses,  and 
drive  her  to  Siloam.  Her  eyes  glittered:  she  had  not 
slept,  and  she  had  shed  many  tears.  Bright  spots  of  red 
stood  out  almost  in  relief  on  her  cheek  bones.  Jake  noticed 
the  glow,  but  had  not  the  eye  trained  to  detect  fever. 
His  preoccupation  with  his  heroine  was  such,  however, 
that  he  divined  both  pleasure  and  pain  in  her  excitement. 

Madge  went  straight  to  Sarah  Martin's,  sure,  at  that 
housewifely  hour,  of  finding  her.  She  told  Jake  to  return 

405 


LOST  VALLEY 

for  her  in  the  afternoon — thereby  soothing  his  fears,  for 
his  faithful  sense  told  him  that  this  lingering  mood  of  the 
early  summer  was  over,  that  something  had  happened 
which  would  make  all  things  different.  He  had  been 
afraid  that  she  would  not  come  back,  that  his  lien  on 
servitude  was  suddenly  snapped.  He  drove  off  whistling, 
as  if  he  could  perhaps  hit  upon  the  tune  of  the  mystery 
and  understand. 

Madge  did  not  stop  to  knock.  She  went  straight 
through  the  wide  hall  to  the  back  and  came  upon  Sarah 
in  the  kitchen. 

"  Goodness,  Madge !  You  startled  me.  Well,  sit  down. 
I'm  glad  to  see  you.  Anything  new  about  your  plans?" 

"I  don't  exactly  know.  That's  what  I've  come  for — 
to  consult  you." 

"I'm  always  delighted  to  give  advice,"  Sarah  replied 
dryly.  "And  at  my  age,  you  don't  expect  it  to  be  taken. 
That's  an  advantage." 

She  pushed  two  loaves  of  bread  carefully  into  the  oven, 
washed  and  wiped  her  hands  with  the  familiar,  ritual 
gesture,  and  sat  down  in  a  cretonne-covered  rocking- 
chair. 

"I  suppose  you  heard,  over  there,  that  John  Lawrence 
was  dead?"  Miss  Martin  queried.  "About  a  week  ago,  I 
judge.  It  was  in  the  State  Gazette." 

"Yes.    That's  what  1  want  to  consult  you  about." 

Sarah  was  nonplussed.  "What  do  you  mean?  It's 
too  late  to  do  anything  about  the  funeral." 

"No.  This.  Read  it,  won't  you?  I  got  it  yesterday 
afternoon." 

"My  reading  glasses  are  in  the  other  room."  Miss 
Martin  rose,  and  Madge  followed  her,  holding  the  en 
velope  carefully,  as  though  it  were  somehow  more  fragile 
than  paper. 

When  Sarah  had  found  and  adjusted  her  glasses,  Madge 
406 


LOST  VALLEY 

passed  the  letter  to  her  with  a  shaking  hand.  Looking 
up  from  the  hand  to  the  face  above,  Miss  Martin 
exclaimed:  "Madge,  you're  feverish!  Let  me  feel  your 
neck  and  wrists." 

"I  didn't  sleep  any,  last  night.  That's  all.  I  don't 
think  I  am,  much." 

"I'm  going  to  get  you  some  aspirin,  right  off."  Miss 
Martin  rose. 

"No,  wait  until  you've  read  this." 

But  the  aspirin  was  fetched  and  swallowed  perforce 
before  Miss  Martin  would  sit  down  to  the  letter. 

She  read  it  once;  she  read  it  twice;  she  folded  it  up 
and  put  it  back  in  its  envelope;  then  she  took  it  out 
again  and  spread  it  open  on  the  table  before  her  in  the 
sunlight. 

"Well?"  All  Madge's  pent-up  breath  exhaled  in  the 
query. 

"Well,  Madge."  The  older  woman's  voice  had  a  curi 
ous,  inexplicable  note  of  patience. 

"Is  it  real?    Is  it  true?" 

"I'm  not  versed  in  legal  matters,  but  I  don't  see  how 
it  can  be  anything  but  true.  Nobody  'd  go  to  the  trouble 
of  forging  a  letter  like  that  for  a  joke." 

"That's  what  it  seemed  to  me,  but  I  couldn't  make 
myself  convinced,  somehow.  Would  you  believe  it,  Miss 
Martin?  I  never  knew  he  was  dead  until  I  got  this  letter 
yesterday.  I  haven't  seen  anybody  lately  but  Jake  Lef- 
fingwell,  and  if  he  knew,  he  didn't  mention  it.  I'd  have 
minded  his  dying,  in  any  case — you  never  saw  that  letter 
he  wrote  me — but  when  I  read  this  and  found  what  he'd 
done  for  me,  I  felt  as  if  I'd  lost  the  only  friend  I've  got  in 
the  world  besides  you.  I'd  never  thought  of  Mr.  Law 
rence  that  way  before — as  a  friend  of  mine :  only  as  a  per 
son  who  understood  all  about  Lost  Valley.  Perhaps  the 
only  person  alive,  except  me,  that  really  loved  it  and  saw 
27  407 


LOST  VALLEY 

it  for  what  it  was.  This  brings  him  pretty  near  ...  if 
you  say  it's  genuine.  That's  all  that  makes  me  feverish; 
having  a  headache  from  lying  awake  and  crying." 

"Did  you  cry  all  night? " 

"I  lay  awake  all  night.    No,  I  didn't  cry  all  the  time." 

"Because  if  you  did,  I'd  say  you  were  a  silly  woman. 
I  mean,  Madge,  it's  all  right  for  you  to  have  a  proper 
regard  for  John  Lawrence's  memory:  but  when  you've 
seen  him  just  once  in  your  life,  for  five  minutes,  and  had 
one  letter  from  him,  no  matter  how  nice  a  one,  if  you  set 
about  mourning  for  him  like  a  blood  relation,  I  should  say 
it  was  pure  affectation.  You've  a  right  to  take  pleasure 
in  your  good  fortune,  and  I'll  go  so  far  as  to  say  you  may 
be  proud  of  his  having  felt  respect  for  you,  but  if  you're 
going  to  go  down  into  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  over  John 
Lawrence's  death,  you  haven't  got  the  common  sense  I 
credited  you  with." 

"I'm  not,  Miss  Martin,"  Madge  answered  with  spirit. 
"  I  think  I  had  a  right  to  shed  a  few  tears.  I'm  not  making 
too  much  of  that  letter  he  wrote  me  last  year,  either. 
But  it  came  at  a  time  when  it  was  pretty  comforting  to 
have  a  man  like  John  Lawrence  seem  to  understand  what 
I'd  been  through.  Of  course  if  you  say  this  letter  is  real, 
it's  going  to  make  a  lot  of  difference  to  me.  Do  you  blame 
me  for  wanting  to  consult  you?" 

"Suppose  you  tell  me  what  you  mean  to  do.  That's 
the  way  folks  usually  consult." 

"I  haven't  dared  to  plan,  because  I  couldn't  believe  it 
wasn't  just  a  dream." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  want  me  to  plan  for  you?" 

"  I  want  to  know  if  you  think  I'd  have  a  right,  now,  not 
to  sell  the  place." 

"You  mean  live  there?" 

"I  didn't  say  live  there.    I  said  keep  it.    Pay  off  Jacob 
Partridge's  mortgage,  and  own  it  outright." 
408 


LOST  VALLEY 

"But  what  good  is  it  to  you?  I  should  think  you'd 
better  sell.  You  can't  run  that  farm,  and  it's  no  use 
talking.  Not  unless  you  mean  to  marry  a  farmer  and 
settle  down." 

Madge  flushed,  and  the  spots  of  red  on  her  cheek  bones 
were  merged  in  an  even,  spreading  crimson.  "No,  I'm 
afraid  the  farmer  will  have  to  settle  down  without  me." 
She  smiled.  "He'll  probably  get  married  sometime,  but 
he'd  be  glad  enough  to  run  the  place  awhile  alone.  He 
could  probably  get  his  meals  at  home." 

"Madge,  what  do  you  mean?" 

Madge's  flush  and  smile  had  both  faded  as  quickly  as 
they  had  come. 

"I  mean  Jake  Leffingwell.  I've  found  out  that  he's 
just  about  breaking  his  heart  at  leaving  our  place. 
There's  no  room  for  him  at  Leffingwell's,  and  he's 
always  worked  for  Uncle  Andrew.  It's  a  queer  thing, 
Miss  Martin,  but  I  believe  Jake's  a  born  farmer.  He 
feels  about  that  farm  the  way  you  feel  about  teaching 
Latin  to  Billy  Benson  and  getting  him  into  college.  It's 
sacred  to  him." 

"Billy  Benson  isn't  sacred  to  me,"  Miss  Martin  inter 
posed  dryly. 

"No,  of  course  not.  But  I  believe  Latin  is.  I  mean 
Jake  has  faith  in  the  land.  He  thinks  more  could  be  made 
of  it  than  ever  has  been.  He'd  ask  nothing  better  than  to 
be  master  there  and  work  every  hour  of  daylight,  the  year 
through,  to  get  out  of  it  what  he  thinks  can  be  got  out 
of  it.  When  you  think  that  most  young  men  only  want 
to  get  away  from  the  Valley,  it  seems  an  awful  pity  that 
anyone  who  asks  nothing  better  than  to  stay  and  make 
what  he  can  of  it,  should  be  driven  out.  If  Jake  were  just 
resigned,  it  would  be  different.  But  he  isn't.  He's  am 
bitious.  And  more  than  that,  he  loves  it.  He  can't  talk 
about  it  very  well,  but  that's  how  he  feels.  I  don't  know 

409 


LOST  VALLEY 

as  he  ever  could  make  much  of  the  Lockerby  farm,  but  I 
surely  would  like  to  give  him  a  chance." 

Miss  Martin  listened  inscrutably  to  Madge's  sermon. 

"I've  always  heard  there  was  mighty  little  good  land 
in  the  Valley,"  she  said  finally.  "Won't  Jake  Leffingwell 
just  get  fooled  in  the  end,  and  be  bitter  and  unsuccessful 
like  so  many  others?  " 

"Perhaps  so.  But  I'd  like  him  to  have  his  chance. 
The  Valley  wasn't  always  the  way  it  is  now.  Plenty  of 
people  in  past  years  have  made  a  good  living  out  of  it. 
The  trouble  with  the  Valley  is  that  the  healthy  stock  has 
left.  Some  folks  couldn't  make  a  living  out  of  the  best 
land  in  the  world.  .  .  ."  She  paused  a  moment.  The 
spots  on  her  cheeks  were  not  so  bright  now.  She  was  work 
ing  her  fever  off  in  talk.  "I  know  perfectly  well  what 
it's  come  to,  and  what  it  is  now.  I'm  not  going  to  stay 
there  myself,  and  I  wouldn't  force  any  other  human  being 
to.  But  when  a  human  being  wants  to — well,  there's 
something  in  me  that  understands:  the  way  the  dead 
people  on  Barker's  Hill  would  understand."  She  smiled. 
"You  must  forgive  me  for  saying  it  again,  Miss  Martin, 
but  I  know  Mr.  Lawrence  would  have  felt  the  way  I  do 
about  Jake  LeffingwelPs  staying  on." 

"I  never  was  intimate  with  John  Lawrence,  Madge, 
and  I  can't  say  I  have  any  private  information  about  his 
feelings." 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  I  know,  but  I  do.  He  wouldn't 
have  minded  some  of  his  money  going  that  way — I  know 
he  wouldn't." 

"Fix  it  to  suit  yourself,  Madge.  But  what  in  creation 
did  you  say  you  wanted  to  consult  me  for?" 

Madge  laughed.  "Well,  I  do.  Only  I  had  to  explain 
some  things  to  you  first.  Of  course  it  is  a  kind  of  duty 
for  me  to  use  this  money  wisely.  Perhaps  it  isn't  wise  to 
keep  the  place  and  let  Jake  run  it.  Perhaps  I  oughtn't 
410 


LOST  VALLEY 

to.  Only  it  would  be  about  the  nicest  present  I  could 
make  to  myself." 

"The  money  is  yours,  and  you've  a  right  to  do  what 
you  choose.  Twenty-five  thousand  dollars  is  a  good  deal 
to  come  to  a  young  thing  like  you.  But  it  isn't  all  the 
money  in  the  world,  even  so.  I  suppose  you  ought  to 
invest  every  cent  of  it,  and  have  something  to  depend  on 
in  your  old  age — not  throw  away  a  few  thousand  here 
and  a  few  thousand  there,  and  have  nothing  left." 

Madge  ignored  wisdom  as  expressed  in  generalities.  "  I 
don't  see  how  Jake  could  pay  me  anything  the  first  year. 
He  can't  do  much  this  summer,  because  I've  held  him 
back  from  planting.  He  could  plan  for  another  year, 
though.  That  mortgage  is  only  three  thousand,  Miss 
Martin.  I  believe  I  could  spare  that.  Of  course  if  Jake 
can't  do  what  he  thinks  he  can,  I  can  always  sell." 

"Every  year  will  make  it  harder.  You  always  forget, 
Madge,  that  Lost  Valley  isn't  a  going  concern." 

Madge  lifted  her  head.  "Well:  I've  decided!  Jake 
Leffingwell  is  going  to  have  his  chance.  I'm  going  to  keep 
the  place.  You  forget  one  thing,  too,  Miss  Martin:  that 
it  means  a  lot  to  have  a  place  of  your  own  you  could  crawl 
back  to,  if  things  went  wrong." 

"That's  true  enough.  But  you'd  be  a  lot  more  com 
fortable  crawling  back  to  some  little  house  in  Siloam. 
For  that  matter,  you  can  always  crawl  back  to  this  house 
— whether  I'm  alive  or  dead.  I've  seen  to  that." 

"Oh,  Miss  Martin!"  Madge  sank  to  her  knees  and 
buried  her  face  hi  Sarah's  lap.  "You're  too  good  to  me. 
You  always  have  been.  ...  I  won't  do  it  if  you  say  I 
mustn't,  but  I  wish  you  could  see  how  I  feel." 

Miss  Martin  looked  very  uncomfortable — as  indeed  she 
was — but  she  did  not  displace  the  head  that  had  sought 
refuge.  She  sat  awkward  and  silent  until  Madge  rose. 

"I  don't  interfere  with  decisions  that  are  once  made  by 

411 


LOST  VALLEY 

people  of  legal  age,"  she  stated.  "Is  there  anything  else 
you'd  like  my  advice  about?" 

Madge  began  to  laugh.  The  laugh  gained  on  her  until 
she  had  to  wipe  her  eyes.  Miss  Martin  struggled  as  with 
an  infection,  but  finally  gave  up  the  fight.  The  two  women 
gave  way,  together,  to  frank  mirth. 

Sarah  recovered  first.  "There!  That  '11  probably  do 
us  good.  Now  do  you  want  to  talk  about  other  things? 
Because  I'll  slip  out  and  look  at  my  bread  and  come  back." 
She  went  into  the  kitchen. 

"I  suppose,"  Madge  said,  a  few  minutes  later,  "that  I 
had  better  tell  Miss  Powers  I  can  afford  to  take  any 
course  she  thinks  I  ought  to." 

"I  suppose  you  can.  You  wouldn't  feel  like  fitting 
yourself  to  go  through  college?" 

"No."  Madge  shook  her  head  emphatically.  "I  in 
tend  to  be  educated,  but  I'll  have  to  do  it  without  a 
regular  college  course.  I'm  going  to  go  right  on  with  my 
Latin,  and  I  shall  take  some  French  lessons  in  Boston, 
and  I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  lay  out  a  course  of  reading 
for  me." 

"I  shall  be  pleased  to  do  it.  You've  got  a  good  brain, 
Madge,  and  I  don't  doubt  you'll  get  there  in  your  own  way, 
and  be  a  cultivated  woman.  There's  a  lot  of  your  mother 
in  you.  You'll  never  fly  so  high  that  you'll  get  above 
Mary  Fales's  natural  level." 

"I'm  sure  of  that.  And  I  don't  suppose  I'll  ever  fly 
high  at  all.  But  I'm  going  to  work  hard  and  do  my  best." 

Sarah  was  in  some  secret  way  propitiated  by  certain 
abstentions  in  Madge's  reply.  "I  think  you're  probably 
right,  Madge,"  she  went  on.  "Lockerby  stock  was  good 
stock  for  a  hundred  years.  You've  drawn  a  good  deal  of 
stamina  from  the  other  side  of  your  family,  I  guess.  For 
the  last  of  the  Lockerbys,  you  do  pretty  well.  And  I'll 
say  you  must  have  a  pretty  good  inheritance  to  stand  up 
412 


LOST  VALLEY 

against  things  the  way  you  have.  'Tisn't  as  if  you'd  had 
any  advantages  as  a  child." 

"I  had  some.  I  was  taught  to  be  honest  and  truthful 
and  not  to  do  anything  low  or  mean.  Of  course  I  know 
what  you  think  about  Uncle  Andrew — " 

Sarah  interrupted  her.  "I  understand  your  Uncle 
Andrew,  I  believe,  a  good  deal  better  than  you  do.  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  Madge,  I've  had  a  good  deal  more 
respect  for  him  since  last  November  than  I  ever  had 
before.  I  don't  defend  suicide;  I  know  it's  a  sin.  But  if 
we  knew  everything  that  went  on  in  Andrew  Lockerby's 
mind,  I  guess  we'd  find  he  was  as  ready  to  face  his  Maker 
as  most  men.  He  did  a  thing  he  shouldn't  have  done. 
But  I  believe  his  motives  were  pretty  respectable.  Andrew 
Lockerby  hadn't  what  I'd  call  a  good  disposition  or  an 
even  temper.  I  don't  know  as  there  was  much  Christian 
resignation  in  him.  But  he  didn't  whine,  anyway.  And 
he  was  no  hypocrite.  You  be  a  Lockerby  as  much  as  you 
please,  Madge.  Only  don't  get  too  proud  of  it.  Lost 
Valley  isn't  the  only  community  in  the  United  States 
that  was  respectable  a  hundred  years  ago,  you  know." 

"You  think  I'm  silly,  don't  you?" 

"Just  a  little,  on  that  point.  But  we're  all  silly  about 
something  or  other." 

"  You  ve  never  had  to  go  down  on  your  knees  and  pray 
for  something  you  could  be  proud  of." 

"There,  there!  Didn't  I  say  we  were  all  foolish  about 
something?  Being  proud  of  the  dead  is  better  than  put 
ting  yourself  on  a  pedestal.  I  get  a  good  deal  of  pleasure 
out  of  your  feeling  about  the  Valley,  Madge.  It's  bound 
to  strike  me  as  being  a  little  funny,  but  fundamentally,  I 
guess  I  understand.  Now  I  must  see  about  getting 
dinner." 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

MADGE  found  a  pleasure  truly  exquisite  in  giving 
Jake  Leffingwell  to  understand  that  he  was  free 
to  become  a  clod  on  the  Lockerby  acres.  Jake's  jaw 
dropped  and  his  eyes  widened  when  the  matter  was  made 
clear  to  him.  Jake  could  not  be  said  to  be  beautified  by 
joy.  But  in  his  opaque,  inexpressive  eyes  Madge  caught 
a  shifting  gleam  of  something  she  had  never  seen  in  them 
before;  and  knew  that  even  there  Romance  had  passed. 
"He  wants  different  things  from  what  I  want,  but  he 
wants  them  the  same  way,"  she  reflected.  To  give  to 
any  human  being  his  heart's  desire  is  a  wonderful  thing. 
Madge  savored  it  to  the  full.  At  the  same  time,  her  self- 
respect  was  subtly  strengthened.  She  belonged  now  to  a 
different  order;  being  a  person  who  could  give  joy.  So 
must  the  exponent  of  the  species  feel  in  the  throes  of  suc 
cessful  mutation. 

Madge  had  passed,  under  the  empire  of  much  business, 
out  of  the  unreal  mood  in  which  she  had  spent  so  many 
weeks.  Was  she  happier?  It  is  hard  to  say,  for  she  had 
been  very  happy  under  the  spell.  It  was  a  more  genuine 
happiness,  at  all  events,  and  saner.  She  touched  life  as 
it  is  at  more  points:  her  satisfaction  was  on  all  fours 
with  fact. 

Now  she  could  face  the  glade  beside  the  brook  without 
fear.  If  there  was  a  shock  in  store  for  her,  she  was  braced 
for  it.  She  chose,  with  an  odd  little  sense  of  bravado,  the 
noon  hour  for  her  visit,  and  carried  a  lunch  basket  with 
her.  Madge  was  not  really  afraid — not  though  she  in- 
414 


LOST  VALLEY 

tended  to  settle,  once  for  all,  the  as  yet  unsettled  question 
of  how  much  Arthur  Burton,  when  she  cast  up  her  final 
accounts,  was  to  have  meant  in  her  life. 

She  passed  through  the  winding  leafy  corridor,  and 
came  without  hesitation  to  the  spot  where  the  pool  first 
gleamed  into  sight.  She  went  straight  on,  to  the  rock 
where  Arthur  used  to  stretch  himself,  and  sat  down  in 
her  old  place  beside  it. 

Not  any  lessoning  of  herself,  but  Arthur's  scorn, 
Arthur's  false  gestures,  Arthur's  misreading  of  fact,  had 
undone  her  bonds.  She  had  seen  that  fundamentally 
they  were  strange  to  one  another;  she  had  felt  with  her 
profoundly  healthy  instincts  that  love  unreturned  is 
seldom  the  perfect  love.  There  was,  as  I  have  said  before, 
a  conception  of  justice  in  Madge  Lockerby's  mind  which 
never  failed  her  for  very  long.  The  persistence  of  that 
conception  was  perhaps  the  only  distinguished  trait  she 
had.  The  rest  of  her  is  easily  duplicated.  At  all  events 
it  was  characteristic  of  Madge  Lockerby  that  having 
realized  with  deep  satisfaction  her  perfect  release  from  a 
vain  passion,  she  set  about  giving  Arthur  Burton  his  due. 
It  was  not  enough  for  her  to  know  that  she  no  longer 
loved  him.  She  could  not  let  it  go  at  that.  She  would 
not  ignore  what  had  been  real  in  the  whole  affair,  what 
would  be  lasting. 

Madge  ate  her  luncheon,  got  water  from  the  spring 
and  drank,  then  tidied  her  basket,  and  washed  her  hands 
in  the  brook.  After  this  she  sat  down  again,  propped 
against  Arthur's  rock — some  queer  reserve  kept  her  from 
lying  in  the  spot  where  he  had  so  often  lain — and  entered 
upon  the  second  stage  of  her  meditation. 

Madge  sighed  as  she  faced  the  rest:  the  rest  was  so 
nearly  incalculable.  To  settle  this,  she  must  see  herself 
very  clearly  in  the  past  and  in  the  present.  The  strange 
sequence  of  events  she  could  ignore.  That  Arthur  had 

415 


LOST  VALLEY 

brought  her  again  into  relation  with  John  Lawrence,  for 
example,  was  pure  coincidence.  What  was  not  chance, 
what  he  had  freely  given  her  out  of  pure  kindness,  was — 
ah,  that  was  the  incalculable  thing,  the  sum  that  knotted 
her  brow  as  she  bent  forward,  her  knees  clasped  in  her 
hands,  and  stared  at  the  surface  eddies  of  the  pool.  It  was 
ten  minutes  before  she  raised  her  head  and  the  relaxation 
of  her  features  proclaimed  that  her  task  was  done. 

"Everything,"  she  murmured.  "I  owe  him  everything. 
You  may  say  Arthur  Burton  educated  me.  More  than 
my  mother's  books;  more  than  Miss  Martin's  lessons. 
He  taught  me  about  beauty,  and  he  taught  me  about — 
civilization.  He's  given  me  far  more  than  I  ever  paid  for. 
What  he  gave  me  keeps  on.  But  I've  stopped  paying.'* 
She  whispered  the  words  to  herself. 

Deep  quiet  settled  on  the  pool.  Even  the  little  ruffling 
breeze  ceased  as  if  it  had  been  but  the  breath  of  Madge's 
questioning.  There  was  one  thing  left  to  do — to  gather 
up  the  fragments,  if  any  still  remained,  of  Lizzie  Fessen- 
den's  vase,  yonder  in  the  crumbling  niche.  But  Madge 
was  drowsy  with  the  day's  heat,  and  the  toil  of  her  calcu 
lations.  She  drooped  comfortably,  content. 

A  sudden  violence  among  the  tree  boughs,  the  hint  of 
a  man's  form  on  her  outer  edge  of  vision  as  she  turned  her 
head,  brought  her  up  standing  after  a  hasty  scramble. 
There  was  a  gleam  of  terror  in  Madge's  possessed  eyes; 
because,  for  an  instant,  she  could  conceive  of  no  man's  ap 
pearing  to  her  in  that  spot  save  Arthur  Burton.  The 
gleam  faded  when  she  recognized  the  intruder,  and  the 
passing  of  that  flicker  of  fear  marked  the  ultimate  death  of 
Burton's  obsessive  power.  She  stood,  steadying  herself 
on  the  rock,  her  brain  reeling. 

"Why— why— Mr.  Reilly!" 

Reilly  came  forward  toward  her,  and  she  took  a  stiff, 
uncertain  step  to  meet  him,  her  hand  outstretched. 
416 


LOST  VALLEY* 

"How  did  you  get  here?"  Astonishment  could  go  no 
farther  than  hers. 

"A  lad  from  your  place  guided  me.  He  didn't  want 
to,  but  I  was  so  humble  he  couldn't  refuse.  It  would 
have  been  cruelty  to  insects  to  deny  me." 

Madge  laughed,  and  her  whole  distraught  and  drowsy 
being  was  co-ordinated  again  in  that  laugh. 

"You  are  so  absurd,  Mr.  Reilly!  Won't  you  come  and 
sit  down  and  rest?  It's  a  long  way  from  anywhere  to 
Lost  Valley." 

Desmond  dropped,  cross-legged,  to  the  ground,  took  off 
his  hat,  and  sighed  his  gratitude  to  the  cool  shade  of  trees. 

"  You've  said  it.  I've  never  been  on  this  railway  before, 
and  it  didn't  seem  probable  that  it  would  land  me  in  any 
place  inhabited  by  humans.  The  devil  built  it,  and  his 
grandson  ran  the  engine.  The  people  in  the  car  were 
obviously  condemned.  I  got  quite  worried  until  I  inter 
viewed  the  station  master  at  Barker's  Creek.  He  took  a 
real  interest,  and  introduced  me  to  the  motorman  of  the 
electric  car.  After  that,  things  shaped  up  better.  In 
Siloam  everybody  knew  about  Lost  Valley.  The  man 
who  brought  me  over  knew  you.  The  aforesaid  boy  even 
knew  where  you  were.  My  whole  journey  has  been  like 
a  Pilgrim's  Progress,  Delectable  Mountains,  and  all.  I 
had  faith,  you  see,  and  got  off  the  train  where  I  was  told. 
If  I  hadn't  kept  the  Commandments,  I'd  probably  have 
gone  along  with  it  and  been  deposited  at  its  proper  ter 
minus — which,  I  imagine,  is  Hell." 

Madge  laughed.  Reilly's  extravagance  had  always 
amused  her  peculiarly.  She  felt  safe,  somehow,  in  his 
absurdity. 

"I'm  sorry  you  had  a  bad  journey.  What  on  earth  did 
you  take  it  for?  " 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  smoke?"  Her  smile  that  still 
lingered  served  for  reply.  He  lighted  a  cigarette,  made 

417 


LOST  VALLEY] 

himself  comfortable  on  the  turf,  and  spoke.  "The  obvious 
answer  to  that  is  that  I  came  to  see  you.  We'll  take  that 
for  granted.  Also,  I  wanted  to  see  Lost  Valley.  Also,  I 
have  a  present  for  you.  Some  men  would  have  sent  it 
by  express,  but  being  a  delicate  soul,  I  brought  it  myself 
— not  being  sure  you  wanted  it." 

"A  present?    What?     From  whom? " 

"From  me." 

"But  what  present  could  you  have  for  me?" 

"Something  that  was  given  to  me  and  that  I  feel  I 
don't  deserve.  Something  that  I  think  you  do  deserve." 

"  I  don't  deserve  anything  at  all,  ever.  But  I  wish  you'd 
tell  me  what  it  is." 

"I  will,  presently.  I  left  it  at  your  house.  Let's  talk 
a  bit,  now." 

"There's  plenty  of  time  to  talk,"  Madge  began. 

"No,  there  isn't.  The  man  who  fetched  me  over  is 
coming  back  for  me  at  six  o'clock — with  another  pair  of 
bosses.  I  thought  he'd  wait  about  and  pass  the  time  o' 
day  with  old  friends.  But  not  so.  Your  Valley,  I  make 
out,  isn't  very  popular,  Miss  Madge  Lockerby." 

"Don't  you  think  it's  beautiful?"  she  asked  quietly. 

Desmond  screwed  his  face  up.  "I  think  it's  very  beau 
tiful — extremely  beautiful.  But  I'm  glad  as  the  dickens 
you're  getting  out." 

"Who  told  you  I  was  getting  out?" 

"  I  can't  remember  whether  the  first  one  was  the  motor- 
man  or  a  little  towhead  over  in  Siloam.  A  good  many 
people  have  mentioned  it  in  the  course  of  the  last  few 
hours.  You're  a  nine-days'  wonder,  aren't  you?  Being 
an  heiress,  and  all.  John  Lawrence,  too!  That's  what 
hits  them." 

"I  wish  people  would  concern  themselves  with  their 
own  affairs."  She  frowned  slightly. 

"I  know.  I've  been  guilty,  myself,  of  that  unsocial 
418 


LOST  VALLEY 

desire.  But  the  race  is  too  strong  for  such  a  crabbed 
minority  as  you  and  me.  Do  you  know  the  only  way  out? 
Since  most  people  live  on  gossip,  as  much  as  on  vita- 
mines,  be  truly  charitable:  give  them  something  to  be 
curious  about.  In  other  words,  do  what  you  damn  please. 
They'll  talk,  anyhow.  I  hope  you're  not  going  to  turn 
conventional  because  you're  rich." 

"  But  I'm  not  rich — not  a  bit.  How  much  have  you  been 
supposing  that  legacy  was?" 

"I  know  what  that  legacy  was,  precisely.  You  have 
occasionally  been  the  subject  of  discussion  in  New  York." 

Madge  flushed,  though  it  was  not  a  flush  that  hurt. 
"Do  you  mean  Mr.  Burton?" 

Reilly  watched  her  very  closely  as  he  answered.  "The 
will  was  public  property.  It  was  published  in  all  the 
Chicago  papers.  Most  people  didn't  know  who  Madge 
Lockerby  was.  Those  who  did,  mentioned  the  fact  to 
one  another.  Yes,  Arthur  spoke  of  it  to  me.  But  the 
really  classic  remarks  came  from  Juanita." 

"Is  she  still  about?"    Madge  asked  negligently. 

"A  spider  is  a  spider  till  the  end  of  time.  Yes,  that 
fool  woman  is  still  about.  If  Arthur  were  the  complete 
brute  you  think  him,  he'd  bring  his  heel  down  on  her. 
But  beyond  a  certain  point,  Burton's  discourtesy  fails 
him." 

"I  should  have  said  that  beyond  a  certain  point  his 
courtesy  failed  him,"  she  answered  dryly.  Then  her  voice 
changed.  "I  never  thought  he  was  a  brute,  Mr.  Reilly. 
And  I'd  rather  we  didn't  talk  about  him." 

"Oh."  Desmond  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
turned  to  her.  "Do  you  not  wish  to  talk  about  Burton 
because  you're  not  sure  how  I  feel  about  him,  or  because 
you're  not  sure  how  you  feel  about  him?  Don't  bother 
to  say  it's  none  of  my  business.  Just  answer  me." 

Again,  as  of  old,  Madge  felt  herself  curiously  drawn  by 

419 


LOST  VALLEY 

his  shameless  directness.  Certainly  she  had  taken,  and 
would  continue  to  take,  things  from  him  without  resent 
ment,  that  she  would  not  take  from  others.  He  was  not 
like  other  people.  His  very  outrageousness  was  disarming, 
because  you  felt,  beneath  it  all,  some  virtue  as  rare  and 
strange  as  his  defects.  She  lifted  her  head  a  little  higher, 
but  she  smiled. 

"If  you'll  grant  that  it's  none  of  your  business,  I'll  tell 
you  why.  It  is  because  I  have  worked  it  all  out,  and  know 
where  I  stand.  If  you  have  any  notion  that  I  am  in  love 
with  Mr.  Burton — well,  I'm  not.  But  I  am  exceedingly 
grateful  to  him  for  a  great  many  things.  On  the  whole,  I 
have  reason  to  be  glad  I  ever  knew  him.  I  don't  much 
care  whether  I  ever  see  him  again  or  not.  I'd  be  perfectly 
willing  to,  if  necessary,  but  I'd  never  go  out  of  my  way  to 
meet  him.  I  don't  think  he's  a  great  man — perhaps  he's 
a  great  artist;  I  don't  know — but  he  has  done  me  more 
good  than  he  ever  did  harm."  A  curious  impulse  came  to 
her.  She  waved  her  hand  at  the  rock  and  the  pool.  "  Just 
here,  where  we  are  sitting,  I've  had  a  great  deal  of  talk 
with  him  in  times  past.  And  all  that  talk  helped  me  a 
great  deal  more  than  anything  down  there  in  New  York 
ever  hindered.  As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  I'm  a  good  friend 
of  his.  You  don't  know  how  beautiful  my  home  is.  But 
I  do.  And  Arthur  Burton  showed  me." 

"Humph!"  Desmond  wrinkled  his  nose  and  consid 
ered.  "It  sounds  well.  I  wonder  if,  by  any  chance,  it's 
true." 

"If  the  truth  hadn't  been  the  easiest  thing  to  tell,  I 
shouldn't  have  taken  the  trouble  to  answer  a  question 
you  had  no  right  to  ask." 

"One  to  you.  One  to  you!"  He  grinned.  "Adequate 
as  ever,  aren't  you?"  He  looked  her  over  slowly,  keenly. 
"And  handsomer — and  every  way  grander.  And  adverbs 
to  burn.  You  used  to  run  short  on  those,  sometimes. 
420 


LOST  VALLEY; 

Cophetua  can  save  his  breath  to  cool  his  porridge."  The 
last  words  were  muttered. 

"Why  waste  your  time  making  fun  of  me,  Mr.  Reilly?" 
she  asked  coolly.  "I  didn't  hear  the  last  thing  you  said, 
but  I  heard  something  about  adverbs.  If  you  mean  my 
grammar  is  better  than  it  used  to  be,  I  think  it  is.  Come 
back  in  a  year  or  two,  and  you  may  find  me  fairly  well 
educated." 

Desmond  Reilly  was  not  easily  dashed.  "Grammar 
hasn't  hurt  your  looks,  anyhow.  The  minute  it  began  to 
do  that,  1  should  enter  a  serious  protest.  My  ideas  on  the 
subject  of  your  sex  are  perhaps  not  wholly  conventional. 
But  what  do  you  mean  by  *  coming  back'?  They  all  told 
me  you  were  leaving." 

"  If  you  had  asked  my  friends  instead  of  car  conductors 
and  small  children  on  the  street,  they  could  have  told 
you  that  I'm  not  selling  the  place.  I'm  keeping  it.  I 
am  going  away;  but  Lost  Valley  is  my  home." 

"  Um-m.  The  monster  of  discretion  who  drove  me  over 
here  didn't  say  you  were  keeping  the  farm.  I  supposed 
you'd  sell." 

"There  were  reasons  why  I  preferred  not  to." 

"Well,  it's  your  own  business.  WTiat  are  you  going 
to  do?" 

"I'm  going  to  Boston,  and  study  what  Miss  Powers 
tells  me  to." 

"And  who  is  Miss  Powers,  please?" 

"The  head  of  a  settlement  there.  I'm  hoping  to  go 
into  settlement  work  when  I'm  ready." 

"In  Boston?" 

"Yes." 

Reilly  shook  his  head  vigorously.  "Oh,  no,  not  in 
Boston.  You  can't  do  that.  Boston  is  where  this  rail 
road  comes  from.  That  would  never  do.  Now  I  hoped 
you'd  take  a  large  and  handsome  flat  in  Mulberry  Street, 

421 


LOST  VALLEY 

and  entertain  your  friends,  and  spend  an  occasional  eve 
ning  with  Jee  Gam.  I  am  sorry,"  he  drawled. 

"So  am  I,  if  you  don't  approve."  Madge  was  imper 
turbable.  "But  you  have  to  live  your  own  life,  don't 
you?" 

"I  rather  think  you  do.  At  least,  I'd  jump  into  the 
East  River  if  I  couldn't  live  mine.  ...  I  rather  think  I'm 
going  to  South  America  for  a  year." 

Madge's  eyes  lighted  with  real  interest.  "Truly?  That 
will  be  nice.  What  are  you  going  to  do  there?" 

"Oh,  I  have  an  offer,"  he  replied  vaguely.  "Of  course 
if  you  were  going  to  be  in  New  York,  I  might  reconsider. 
But  my  work  has  never  taken  me  to  Boston  yet,  and  I 
don't  see  any  prospect  that  it  will." 

"I  like  New  York  better,  myself.  I  don't  know  why. 
But  my  chance  lies  in  Boston.  And  Miss  Powers  is  won 
derful.  I've  got  to  have  something  to  do,  you  know. 
And  I  intend  to  be  happy." 

"Right  you  are.  You  just  stick  to  that.  Boston  it  is, 
if  you  say  so.  But  you  may  change  your  mind,  yet.  I'd 
like  to  see  you  go  back  to  New  York  and  squash  Juanita. 
Just  cut  her  out,  and  then  turn  up  your  nose  at  the  lot. 
Juanita  has  the  lowest  opinion  of  you,  you  know." 

"Of  me?    But  she  doesn't  know  anything  about  me." 

"That  goes  without  saying.  Otherwise  where  would 
she  get  her  low  opinion?"  He  bowed  to  her  behind  a  soft 
swirl  of  cigarette  smoke. 

"But  I  don't  see " 

Desmond  Reilly's  ways  of  testing  his  world  were  often 
indefensible.  He  would  have  been  chucked  out  of  any 
decently  run  laboratory.  "Well,  she  is  convinced  that 
in  some  happy  time  long  past  you  were  Arthur's  mistress. 
Of  course,  theoretically,  Juanita  doesn't  mind.  She's 
above  morals.  But  practically,  when  it's  Arthur,  and 
you're  so  damn  good  looking,  she  does  mind." 


LOST  VALLEY 

Madge  flushed  again,  and  this  time  with  discomfort. 

"Why  do  you  say  such  things  to  me?  Do  you  say  them 
to  other  women?  If  Miss  Dodd  is  stupid  and  wicked 
enough  to  make  up  a  lie  like  that,  is  there  any  reason  why 
you  should  repeat  it  to  me?" 

But  Desmond  was  impenitent.  "I  only  wanted  to  see 
if  you'd  keep  an  even  keel,"  he  remarked  jauntily. 

Reilly  got  up  and  walked  about  the  little  glade  with 
lithe,  uneasy  motions.  Now  and  then  he  kicked  at  a  stone 
or  made  binoculars  of  his  hands  and  stared  across  Lost 
Brook  into  depths  of  foliage. 

"I'm  quite  impossible,  of  course,"  he  remarked  quietly. 
"I  have  to  get  at  things  my  own  way.  And  there  are 
precious  few  things,  as  I  see  it,  that  are  worth  getting  at, 
at  all.  If  they  are,  the  method  doesn't  count.  Ever  since 
last  year,  I've  been  making  up  my  mind  you  were  rather 
a  fine  thing.  .  .  .  These  matters  take  considering.  No,  I'm 
hanged  if  I  apologize!  One  apologizes  to  ladies;  one  is 
honest  with  women.  You  look  like  a  lady;  but  if  you've 
turned  into  one,  you  can  go  to  Moscow  or — Belfast, 
for  all  me."  His  brows  knitted;  his  face  was  flushed. 
He  sat  down  at  the  very  edge  of  the  brook,  his  back 
turned  to  her,  and  began  skipping  stones.  Silence 
enough  to  fill  all  space  seemed  to  be  crammed  into 
that  tiny  retreat. 

Presently — after  five  minutes  or  so — a  cool  white  figure 
drifted  to  his  side.  Madge  sat  down  on  the  grass.  The 
end  of  her  black  sash  swept  his  knee,  and  she  removed  it 
with  careful  fingers. 

"No,  don't."  Desmond  snatched  it  back  and  began 
to  play  with  it. 

"Mr.  Reilly,  I  don't  want  to  quarrel  with  you.    You 

were  awfully  good  to  me  last  year.     Honestly,  I  don't 

know  what  I  should  have  done  without  you.     I  don't 

like  some  of  the  things  you  say.    I  think  your  beautiful 

28  423 


LOST  VALLEY 

manners — there,  in  New  York — helped  almost  as  much  as 
the  practical  things  you  did.  But  if  you  say  your  being 
so  strange  doesn't  mean  anything,  I'm  ready  to  believe 
you.  You  aren't  a  bit  like  anyone  else  I  ever  saw.  You 
probably  have  reasons  of  your  own  for  not  behaving  like 
other  people.  Of  course,  most  of  the  time,  I  just  laugh 
harder  than  I  ever  do  with  anyone  else.  Then  you  do  or 
say  something  no  other  man  would.  But  I  don't  believe 
anyone  so  considerate  as  you  means  to  be  unkind  or  in 
sulting.  Certainly — it's  queer — but  I  don't  begin  to  mind 
it  as  I'd  expect  to.  I  think,  perhaps,  you  and  I  could  be 
real  friends." 

"Nothing  doing,  young  lady!"  His  face  was  inscru 
table,  but  his  tone  was  obviously  bantering. 

Madge  smiled.  "You  know,  if  you'd  just  leave  out  a 
few  of  the  worst  remarks,  I  should  actually  enjoy  all  the 
rest.  I  trust  you.  I  really  do." 

"It's  a  hard  road  for  you."  He  twisted  his  lips.  "But 
you  are  quite  right  in  one  thing:  you  can  always  trust  me 
to  bow  and  scrape  when  I  consider  it  necessary.  My  man 
ners  are,  as  you  remarked,  singularly  beautiful." 

"I  didn't  say  'singularly,'"  she  retorted.  "I  only 
meant  you  behaved  like  a  gentleman.  And  in  spite  of 
everything,  I  believe  you  are." 

"  I  can  roll  over  and  play  dead,  sit  up  and  beg,  wag  my 
tail  at  a  kind  word,  and  give  my  paw  when  requested.  If 
I  drank  out  of  my  finger  bowl  at  a  dinner  party,  it  would 
only  be  to  annoy  my  host — not  because  I  didn't  know 
better.  Does  that  satisfy  you?"  His  tone  was  almost 
insultingly  ironic. 

"Don't!"  Madge  put  up  a  hand  against  the  menace  of 
his  voice.  "I'd  much  rather  you  did  it  because  you  hadn't 
been  brought  up  to  them.  Finger  bowls  are  all  very  nice, 
but  I  never  saw  one  in  my  life  till  I  went  to  Boston.  I 
don't  believe  they're  so  important  as  all  that.  But  I 
424 


LOST  VALLEY 

think  it's  dreadful  to  go  to  a  person's  house  and  then  do 
things  to  trouble  him.  I'd  rather  stay  away." 

"Sometimes  they're  your  relatives,  and  you  can't  stay 
away.  I  have  an  unspeakable  great-aunt  who  fancies 
herself  above  a  bit.  ...  I  don't  do  the  finger-bowl  stunt 
very  often  nowadays.  I'm  old  and  settled.  But  I  make 
no  promises." 

Madge  took  another  turn.  "What  is  the  present,  Mr. 
Reilly?  I  do  have  to  go  home  pretty  soon." 

"The  present?  Why,  your  friend  Mr.  Lawrence  be 
queathed  to  me  one  of  Arthur's  paintings  of  the  Valley. 
He  must  have  been  non  compos  mentis.  If  he  hadn't  left 
you  money,  I  should  have  made  a  scandal  about  the  will. 
WTiat  can  he  ever  have  heard  about  me?" 

"Of  course  I  told  him  how  kind  you  had  been  when  I 
sent  him  the  money  to  give  to  Mr.  Burton.  But  that  was 
all." 

"Sure  you  didn't  say  that  I  wouldn't  return  the  money 
to  Arthur?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  had  to,  of  course." 

"That  accounts  for  it,  then.  John  Lawrence's  little 
joke.  How  the  old  boy  must  have  hated  Arthur!  He 
didn't  give  him  either  one,  you'll  notice.  The  other  went 
to  a  cousin.  All  the  other  pictures  he  left  to  his  wife. 
Just  those  two  omitted.  Probably  thought  the  lady 
didn't  appreciate  his  birthplace.  I  thought  he  had  just 
shut  his  eyes,  run  through  a  directory,  and  stuck  his 
finger  on  a  name.  But  I  can  see  that  John  Lawrence  was 
a  man  after  my  own  heart.  A  regular  spite  factory." 

"No!  You  sha'n't  say  that!  Think  how  good  he 
has  been  to  me — with  no  reason  for  it  at  all  except  just 
kindness." 

"Oh,  he  fell  in  love  with  you.  That's  easy.  Now  the 
point  is,  I'm  offering  you  my  legacy  from  John  Lawrence. 

I  notice  you  don't  offer  me  yours." 

423 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Do  you  mean  that  you've  really  brought  that  picture 
up  here?" 

"Yes.  The  family  shipped  it  at  once.  I  stared  at  it 
for  a  week,  and  then — I  decided." 

"But  where  shall  I  put  it?  I  couldn't  leave  it  here — 
most  of  the  house  will  be  closed  up.  I  shall  have  a  room 
somewhere  in  Boston,  but  probably  no  place  for  a  picture 
like  that.  Oh  dear,  why  did  you  do  it?" 

"Things  can  always  be  stored.  The  point  is,  do  you 
.want  to  keep  it?" 

"Why,  if  I  ever  have  a  proper  place  of  my  own,  I'd  be 
very  glad  to  have  it.  Perhaps  Miss  Martin  would  keep 
it  in  her  house  for  me.  I'm  so  sorry  you  troubled  to 
bring  it,  though." 

"If  I  had  been  perfectly  sure  you  were  dying  to  have 
it,  I  shouldn't  have  brought  it." 

At  first  sight,  it  looked  like  another  of  his  indefensible 
speeches.  Madge  sighed.  She  didn't  really  mind  them, 
curiously  enough,  but  she  was  happiest  when  he  was 
merely  extravagant — "absurd" — as  she  called  it.  Then 
some  indefinable  vibration  in  his  speech,  reaching  her 
brain  later  than  the  verbal  meaning,  began  to  affect  her 
strangely.  Perhaps,  all  along,  she  had  been  unconsciously 
making  ready  for  this  state  in  which  she  suddenly  found 
herself.  She  did  not  know  why  she  was  troubled,  but  she 
began  to  tremble,  to  suffocate,  to  feel  weak  and  hot  and 
dazed.  She  was  too  near  him,  sitting  there  by  the  brook. 
It  confused  her.  She  struggled  to  her  feet,  perplexed  and 
a  little  dizzy.  Then  she  walked  very  slowly  away  from 
him,  over  to  the  old  cider  mill  in  its  recess. 

Desmond  leaped  up,  like  a  cat,  to  follow  her.  Her  back 
was  turned  to  him,  and  she  could  not  see  the  look  in  his 
green  eyes;  but  she  felt  the  pursuit,  and  stretched  out  her 
hand  to  stay  him,  still  without  turning. 

"No,  don't,"  she  gasped.  "I'll  be  ready  to  go  soon.  I 
426 


LOST  VALLEY 

have  to  get  something  I  left  over  here.    Stay  where  you 
are.    I'll  be  back." 

He  stopped  in  his  tracks,  as  easily  and  gracefully  as  a 
wild  animal.  "'As  you  were,'"  he  whispered,  and  stood 
with  arms  comfortably  folded. 

Madge  disappeared  behind  a  shrub,  entering  the  ruin. 
She  rested  there  a  moment,  out  of  sight,  propped  against 
the  crumbling  wall.  Slowly  she  recovered  herself.  The 
dizziness  passed.  Her  perplexity  could  wait;  also  any 
scolding  she  was  tempted  to  administer  to  herself.  Her 
forehead  cooled,  there  in  the  dank  shade;  her  eyes  be 
came  clear.  She  groped  about  for  the  fragments  of  Lizzie 
Fessenden's  vase.  But  Madge  in  her  ritual  period  had  been 
instinctively  as  careful  as  a  priestess.  The  vase,  though 
dirty  and  crusted  and  half  full  of  evil-smelling  water,  was 
intact.  Its  niche  had  been  a  safe  one.  The  painted  golden- 
rod  had  now  a  leprous  look.  Madge  wiped  the  vase  care 
fully  with  moss,  and  held  it  in  her  hand,  gazing.  Time  and 
weather  had  been  cruel  to  Lizzie's  art,  but  the  thing  had 
always  been  ridiculous.  How  could  she  have  spent  money 
for  that?  Never  mind:  even  Uncle  Andrew  had  been 
glad  that  Miss  Fessenden  should  have  one  good  meal. 
She  wouldn't  leave  the  vase  in  its  niche.  It  had  no  busi 
ness  to  be  in  a  niche,  anyway.  And  she  would  rather  die 
than  keep  it.  Yet,  after  all,  she  couldn't  break  it  with  her 
own  hands.  Nor  should  Desmond  Reilly  break  it  with  his 
hands.  She  had  some  decent  feeling  left,  she  hoped.  She 
would  just  abandon  it.  ...  Madge  came  out  of  the  recess, 
bearing  the  poor  thing  with  her.  Motionless,  Reilly 
watched  her  come. 

"I  wanted  to  dispose  of  this,"  she  said  quietly.  To  her 
great  relief,  her  voice  seemed  to  be  entirely  under  her 
control.  "I  left  it  there  ages  ago." 

"Give  it  to  me.    I'll  chuck  it  somewhere." 

"  No ! "    She  raised  it,  protectingly,  in  both  hands. 

427 


LOST  VALLEY 

The  priestess  gesture,  though  unconscious,  smote 
Reilly's  sense.  "Did  you  pour  libations  to  a  god?" 

She  hardly  knew  what  he  said,  but  she  answered  me 
chanically:  "Yes,  to  a  god." 

She  bent  down  at  the  stream's  edge  and  half  filled  the 
vase  with  water,  then  let  it  go  upon  the  little  current. 

"It '11  get  smashed." 

Madge  rose.  "I'm  willing."  The  vase  rounded  a  curve 
of  rock  and  passed  from  their  sight. 

"I  must  go  home  now,"  Madge  said.  "You  say  Silas 
Mann  is  coming  for  you  later?" 

"Yes.  And  you'll  have  to  tell  me  where  one  stays  in 
Siloam." 

"But  there's  a  train  down  from  Barker's  Creek  this 
evening." 

"Thank  you  for  the  suggestion.  But  I'm  afraid  I've 
got  to  ask  for  a  little  of  your  time  to-morrow." 

"Oh."  She  bit  her  lip.  "There  isn't  any  hotel  in  Siloam. 
Sometimes  people  stop  at  the  postmaster's,  but  his  wife 
is  sick  now.  I  don't  believe  they  could  manage." 

"Then  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  recommend  me  to 
some  friend.  It  must  be  possible  for  some  one  not  a  citi 
zen  of  Siloam  to  sleep  there,  once  in  a  way.  Don't  send 
me  to  Barker's  Creek!" 

"I'm  not  sending  you  anywhere.  Only  I  don't  know 
of  any  place.  Couldn't  you  finish  up  before  Mr.  Mann 
comes  back  for  you?" 

"No.  I  couldn't.  I've  got  to  see  you  to-morrow. 
To-day  will  by  no  means  do.  Of  course  I  could  sleep  out 
of  doors.  I  will  if  you  insist.  But  I've  left  my  bag  over 
there,  and  I'm  afraid  if  I  slept  out  in  a  large  city  like 
Siloam,  they'd  arrest  me." 

"If  I  sent  a  note  and  begged  her  as  a  favor,  I  dare  say 
Miss  Martin  would  take  you  in.  But  I  am  afraid  you 
would  shock  her.    You  are  so — extraordinary." 
428 


LOST  VALLEY 

"That's  your  highbrow  schoolma'am  friend,  isn't  it? 
I'll  discuss  JSschylus  with  her,  and  I  will  by  no  means 
drink  out  of  the  finger  bowls.  I'm  not  afraid  of  Miss 
Martin.  You've  never  heard  the  line  of  talk  I  can  get  off 
with  the  truly  educated." 

They  were  walking  back,  now,  along  the  leafy  corridor. 
Madge  made  no  answer  until  they  emerged  upon  the  path 
that  made  a  short  cut  to  Lockerby's. 

"I'll  write  a  note,"  she  said  finally.  "You  can  give  it 
to  Miss  Martin.  That's  the  very  best  I  can  do  for  you." 

"Thanks." 

They  approached  the  house,  after  that,  in  silence. 
Madge,  looking  sidewise  at  Desmond's  bare  head,  noticed 
the  hot  shimmer  from  gold  to  copper  where  the  thick 
waves  of  his  hair  took  the  sun.  She  liked  the  changing 
surface  of  it,  as  she  liked  the  thrusts  and  flights  of  his 
talk,  the  easy  restlessness  of  him.  She  pushed  the  memory 
of  her  brief  trouble  by  the  brook  back  into  an  inner  closet 
of  her  mind.  Walking  beside  him  thus,  in  silence,  she  was 
at  peace.  It  was  queer,  how  you  trusted  something  far 
down  below,  when  there  was  so  much  on  top  you  couldn't 
understand.  Queer,  too,  how  pleasant  it  was  to  be  forever 
perplexed  by  some  people,  while  with  others  you  wanted 
only  to  say  something  sharp  and  be  gone.  So  many  things 
are  queer.  .  .  . 

Madge  wrote  her  note,  and  took  leave  of  him.  "I  have 
to  go  over  and  see  Jake's  mother  before  supper.  I'll  try 
to  get  back  before  Mr.  Mann  comes  for  you.  If  I  don't — 
well,  good-by.  I  think  Miss  Martin  will  take  you  in.  Of 
course  if  she  couldn't — I  guess  you'd  have  to  go  to  Barker's 
Creek  and  take  the  train,  after  all." 

"If  I  am  obliged  to  investigate  the  resources  of  Siloam, 
I'll  do  it.  Believe  me,  I've  screwed  a  night's  lodging  out 
of  worse  places  than  that.  I'm  afraid  there's  no  doubt 
you'll  see  me  to-morrow.  What  time  will  be  most  con- 

429 


LOST  VALLEY 

venient  for  you?"  He  had  his  most  courtly  manner  now. 
In  spite  of  herself,  Madge  almost  blushed  for  her  own 
rudeness. 

"Any  time  after  ten." 

"I'll  be  here  as  nearly  at  ten-five  as  possible.  Thank 
you  so  much." 

She  turned  away.  Desmond  strolled  into  the  yard 
and  gave  himself  up  to  the  difficult  task  of  fascinating 
Jake  Leffingwell.  Jake  held  out  for  twenty  minutes,  but 
was  finally  rendered  helpless  by  a  graphic  description  of 
agriculture  as  pursued  in  certain  remoter  sections  of  the 
Balkans. 

Reilly  waved  a  hand  at  the  lad  as  he  drove  off.  Jake's 
jaw  dropped  as  he  found  himself  clumsily  responding. 

"Gosh!  I  did  laugh!"  Jake  murmured  to  himself 
mournfully  as  he  started  for  the  cows.  He  resented  his 
own  mirth,  but  nothing  so  explosive  could  be  denied. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

MUCH  cerebration,  of  course,  had  preceded  and  pre 
pared  Desmond  Reilly's  decision  to  seek  Madge 
Lockerby  out  in  her  ancestral  valley.  But  because 
Reilly's  cerebration  was  peculiar  and  his  own,  by  no  means 
conforming  to  ordinary  laws,  it  will  not  be  detailed  here. 
The  Irish  formula  might  cover  part  of  it,  but  not  all. 
Desmond's  mental  processes  resembled  the  bodily  habit 
of  the  high-bred  cat.  He  slept  unconscionably  over  a 
problem,  with  only — now  and  then — a  nervous  whisker 
twitching.  Waking,  his  mind  stretched  and  yawned, 
then  leaped  with  sub-or-superhuman  agility  to  the  branch 
he  had  been  keeping  an  eye  on  all  the  time.  But  he  was 
no  fool,  and  no  more  sentimental  than  the  cat  he  to  some 
extent  resembled.  His  own  fastidiousness  was  great: 
many  and  subtle  were  the  ways  in  which  a  woman  had  to 
satisfy  his  finer  sense.  He  would  never  lose  his  head  over 
anything  flashy,  cheap,  or  loose. 

The  journey  to  Lost  Valley  had  been  one  of  his  most 
extraordinary  leaps.  Sitting  in  Sarah  Martin's  parlor,  he 
was  infinitely  amused  and  perfectly  satisfied.  A  little 
disappointed,  perhaps,  that  Madge  was  more  civilized 
than  he  remembered  her;  but  aware  that  she  suited  him 
better  even  than  he  had  dreamed.  He  had  wanted  very 
much  to  make  love  to  her  that  afternoon,  but  Desmond 
Reilly  would  never  make  love  to  any  woman  until  per 
mission  had  been  frankly  given.  You  might  fear  Des 
mond's  tongue;  but  his  eyes,  his  hands,  his  lips,  were 
schooled  as  rigidly  as  a  bevy  of  novices. 

431 


LOST  VALLEY 

It  suited  Reilly,  too,  considering  the  peerless  unpro- 
tectedness  of  Madge,  to  take  Sarah  Martin  into  his  con 
fidence.  He  did  not  in  the  least  mind  her  sort  of  conven 
tionality.  He  had  a  notion  that  with  Sarah  you  could 
get  very  quickly  down  to  essentials.  As  for  Miss  Martin, 
though  bewildered  and  on  her  guard,  she  had  succumbed 
to  his  perfect  manners.  When  Desmond  was  "good,"  he 
was  superlative. 

"I  dare  say  you  have  gathered  that  I  want  to  marry 
Madge  Lockerby,"  he  said  to  her  suddenly  as  they  lingered 
in  her  parlor,  preparatory  to  bidding  each  other  good 
night. 

"  I  don't  gather  things.    I  wait  for  people  to  tell  me." 

"In  that  case,  you're  the  choicest  work  of  God.  Well, 
I  do.  I  haven't  the  faintest  notion  whether  she'll  consider 
me  or  not.  I'm  going  over  to  Lost  Valley  to-morrow  to 
find  out." 

"I  haven't  any  information  to  give  you  on  that  point. 
I  should  have  said  she  had  never  thought  about  you  in 
that  way.  But  of  course  I  don't  know." 

Desmond  twisted  his  lips.  "I  don't  want  any  informa 
tion — except  from  her.  Of  course  she  has  never  thought 
about  me  in  that  way.  Considering  how  little  she  knows 
me,  it  would  have  been  rather  indelicate  of  her,  don't 
you  think?" 

But  Sarah  was  not  easily  dashed,  either.  "I  suppose 
she  knows  you  as  well  as  you  know  her." 

"Yes,  but  I'm  a  man.  The  man  has  to  take  the  leap 
first.  Well,  I'm  going  to  try  my  luck.  I've  just  been 
looking  over  the  ground  this  afternoon." 

"Did  you  make  anything  out?" 

Reilly  smiled.  "I  disposed  of  Arthur  Burton.  She 
really  doesn't  care  a  hang  about  him.  Unless  there's  a 
dark  horse  in  Siloam,  I  imagine  it's  a  clear  field.  Of 
course  I  haven't  any  idea  whether  she  likes  me  enough  or 
432 


LOST  VALLEY 

not.  But  I'll  see.  If  she  doesn't — well,  she'll  be  rid  of  me. 
I'm  not  going  to  hang  round.  Either  she  says  to-morrow 
that  she'll  marry  me,  or  she  never  sees  me  again." 

"Don't  you  think  it's  rather  hard  on  a  girl  not  to  give 
her  more  time?  It's  a  big  question." 

"Yes,  but  I'd  never  want  to  marry  the  sort  of  girl  who 
thinks  it  over.  I'm  not  going  to  sit  down  and  coax  a 
woman  as  if  she  were  an  automobile  engine.  Either  she — 
humph! — ignites,  or  she  doesn't.  If  it  comes  at  all,  it's  a 
smashing,  divine,  unexpected  thing,  a  big  romantic  risk — 
a  leap  in  the  dark.  No:  a  leap  into  the  body  of  the  sun! 
I  don't  want  to  be  thought  over.  I  want  to  be  a  matter 
of  instinct.  Either  Madge  knows  I'm  the  man  for  her, 
knows  it  spot  off — or — or  I'm  not  the  man  for  her.  And,  by 
the  same  token,  she's  not  the  woman  for  me.  I  wouldn't 
marry  three  hundred  pages  of  Henry  James  for  any  money. 
Of  course  I  shall  do  my  best  to  convince  her,"  he  added 
grimly;  "but,  all  the  same,  she's  free  as  air." 

Sarah  made  no  reply.  She  was  considering  him  with 
intensity. 

In  a  moment,  Reilly  rose  and  stood  before  her,  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  his  eyes  dilating  and  contracting.  His  face 
was  flushed.  But  his  voice,  when  he  spoke,  was  curiously 
shy. 

"  I  say,  Miss  Martin,  I  don't  in  the  least  want  to  trouble 
you.  I'd  like  to  explain  why  I  said  all  this.  If  Madge 
were  in  the  position  of  most  girls  I  know,  I  should  prob 
ably  have  moved  heaven  and  earth  to  keep  her  friends 
out  of  it.  I  should  probably  have  wanted  her  to  elope 
with  me.  But  just  because  she  is  placed  as  she  is,  I  feel 
like  stating  my  intentions  to  some  responsible  person." 
He  smiled  as  if  embarrassed  by  his  own  inconsistency. 
"If  her  uncle  had  been  living,  I  should  have  gone  to  him 
and  asked  permission  to  pay  my  addresses.  Upon  my 
word,  I  should.  When  your  acquaintance  has  ripened  in 

433 


LOST  VALLEY 

the  slums  of  New  York,  and  the  only  chaperon  in  sight 
was  the  policeman  at  the  corner" — his  smile  turned  to  his 
own  authentic  grin — "you  must  get  the  Victorian  touch 
in  somewhere,  for  contrast.  I  know  you  are  not  her 
guardian,  but  you  are  certainly  the  most  eminent  of  her 
few  respectable  friends.  So  I  approach  you." 

"Do  I  understand  that  you  are  requesting  my  permis 
sion  to  ask  Madge  to  marry  you?"  Sarah  snapped. 

Desmond's  voice  was  now  velvet.  "I  don't  suppose 
you'd  quite  like  to  take  that  responsibility.  I  shouldn't 
like  to  ask  you  to  sponsor  me.  No:  I'm  just — filing  my 
intention  with  her  lawyer.  If  she  should  say  'yes,'  I'd 
like  you  to  announce  her  marriage  for  her.  If  she  says 
'no,'  you  are  empowered  to  tell  everybody,  including  the 
station  master  at  Barker's  Creek,  that  Miss  Lockerby,  to 
your  certain  knowledge,  turned  down  a  most  eligible 
suitor." 

"How  do  I  know  that  you  are  eligible?" 

This  was  after  Desmond's  own  heart.  "  It  goes  without 
saying  that  I'm  trying  to  marry  her  for  her  money,"  he 
purred.  "I  didn't  mention  it  before,  because  I  knew  that 
any  intelligent  person  would  realize  it  at  once.  But  if 
you  want  any  proof  of  respectability  beyond  that,  I'll 
say  that  I  am  not  descended,  if  I  can  help  it,  from  any 
of  the  Irish  kings,  that  I'm  sound  in  wind  and  limb,  and 
am  perfectly  willing,  if  necessary,  -to  produce  a  doctor's 
certificate  to  that  effect,  and  that  the  only  reason  I've 
never  made  any  more  money  is  that  I  have  always  made 
as  much  as  I  needed.  I  have  been  in  jail,  in  several  coun 
tries,  for  all  sorts  of  reasons — not  saluting,  and  knocking 
men  down  when  they  had  reverted  a  little  too  far,  and 
once  because  I  inadvertently  spoke  English  when  I  ought 
to  have  known  better.  That's  my  dossier  up  to  date. 
Of  course  if  you  don't  approve  of  me,  you've  only  to  say 
so;  but  it  won't  make  any  difference  with  my  own  pro- 
434 


LOST  VALLEY 

ceedings,  and  no  matter  how  early  you  get  up  in  the  morn 
ing,  I  shall  get  up  earlier,  if  it's  a  question  of  beating  it  to 
Lost  Valley  before  you  do." 

"  I  don't  say  I  disapprove  of  you.  But  I  don't  see  how 
you  can  possibly  expect  me  to  do  anything  else,"  Miss 
Martin  began  austerely.  Then,  in  spite  of  herself,  she 
began  to  laugh. 

"That's  good!"  Desmond  said  heartily.  "Laughter  is 
one  of  the  forms  of  true  piety.  You  must  be  a  good  woman, 
or  you  couldn't  laugh  at  me." 

Sarah  controlled  herself.  "I'll  go  so  far  as  to  say  I  like 
you,  Mr.  Reilly.  Only  I  don't  see  how  any  woman  could 
bring  herself  to  marry  you.  She  wouldn't  know  whether 
she  was  standing  on  her  head  or  her  heels." 

"Oh  yes,  she  would!"  Desmond  smiled  at  her  sunnily 
— there  is  no  other  word  for  that  special  irradiating  smile 
of  his.  "My  heart  would  be  patterned  all  over  with  her 
heel-prints.  Don't  you  worry  about  that.  And  she's 
clever,  too — your  Madge  Lockerby.  She  brought  me  up 
standing,  last  year  in  New  York,  when  she  told  me,  cool 
as  the  cat  that  stole  the  cream,  that  she  had  sent  John 
Lawrence  the  money  for  Arthur  Burton.  She's  just  a 
shade  too  impertinent,  perhaps — but  that's  between  her 
and  me."  His  face  grew  very  grave.  "As  is  everything 
else." 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  Sarah,  who  rose  to  bid  him  good 
night. 

"Are  you  going  to  try  to  steal  a  march  on  me?" 

"Certainly  not.  If  Madge  Lockerby  wants  to  marry 
you,  it's  her  own — " 

"Funeral,"  Desmond  suggested. 

"Affair,"  Sarah  finished.  "If  she  decides  to,  it  will  be 
because  she  wants  to,  anyway,  not  because  she  doesn't 
know  which  way  to  turn.  I  don't  think  Madge  is  par 
ticularly  sorry  for  herself,  these  days.  I'm  glad  you  didn't 

435 


LOST  VALLEY 

turn  up  last  winter  just  after  Andrew  Lockerby  made 
away  with  himself.  If  she  does  it  now,  she  does  it  in  good 
health,  with  her  eyes  open.  I've  nothing  to  say." 

Desmond's  eyes  were  wistful.  They  could  be  when  he 
desired.  Or  perhaps  I  should  say  that  wistfulness  was  a 
genuine  mood  in  him,  easily  induced  when  he  was  deeply 
stirred. 

"That's  all  I  could  possibly  expect  from  you,  and  I 
thank  you.  Also  I  must  tell  you  once  more  how  very 
grateful  I  am  to  you  for  taking  me  in.  Whatever  happens, 
I  shall  never  forget  it."  He  bowed  low  to  Miss  Martin, 
then  went  quickly  up  the  stairs  to  his  room. 

There  he  drew  up  a  chair  to  the  window,  and,  leaning 
on  the  sill,  crammed  his  lungs  with  the  scented  air.  "  Pa 
laver  done  set,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  his  forehead 
pressed  against  the  cool  white  window  jamb.  Every  sylla 
ble  of  his  talk  had  been  a  pain  to  him.  He  had  done  it 
all  because  he  thought  he  must;  but  contacts  like  that 
bruised  him  intolerably.  Desmond  Reilly  was  an  essen 
tially  solitary  soul.  Though  all  his  health  and  youth 
were  urging  him  to  marriage,  I  doubt  if  he  would  have 
chosen  any  woman  who  stood  surrounded  by  a  human 
group.  When  he  had  found  his  mate,  he  and  she  would 
be  one  flesh  and  one  spirit.  So  solitude  would  be  kept. 
Madge  Lockerby  had  no  context.  He  had  invented  one 
for  her,  that  evening,  by  a  chivalrous  scruple.  But  she 
was  really  alone.  That  was  one  thing  that  drew  him.  .  . . 

He  had  spoken  truth,  though  against  his  will,  to  Sarah, 
when  he  had  denned  the  way  in  which  love,  to  satisfy 
him,  must  come.  It  must  be  blind,  and  superbly  confident: 
eager  to  stake  the  cosmos  on  a  guess — a  "hunch."  If 
Madge  couldn't — well,  he  would  probably  slide  into  middle 
age  alone.  But  he  wouldn't  break  his  heart;  because,  if 
she  couldn't,  she  wasn't  his  mate,  after  all,  and  he  wouldn't 
live  three  months  with  a  woman  who  wasn't  his  mate. 
436 


LOST  VALLEY 

Not  he!  The  idealist — who  is  your  only  practical  person 
— refused  to  stew  and  worry  over  her  more  than  possible 
refusal.  Time  enough  for  that  to-morrow.  His  physical 
weariness  helped  him  to  calm.  He  smoked  a  last  cigarette 
to  the  true  romance,  and  went  to  bed. 

It  was  not  the  alders  by  the  pool,  but  a  thick  clump  of 
beeches  on  the  high  ridge  of  Barker's  Hill,  that  guarded 
Madge  and  Desmond  from  the  world  during  the  hour 
when  Reilly  put  his  fortune  to  the  touch.  The  wind  had 
shifted  to  the  northwest  in  the  night,  and  July  turned  for 
one  divine  moment  to  late  May.  Climbing  up  among  the 
fantastic  thorns,  they  faced  a  ruffling  breeze  that  dried 
the  sweat  on  their  brows.  Languor  had  passed  out  of  the 
midsummer  air;  the  temperate  zone  indulged  for  once  in 
temperance.  Their  eyes  were  clear  and  cool,  and  Loth 
felt  physically  braced,  at  least,  for  what  the  day  might 
bring.  The  stirring  of  the  wind  was  pleasantly  ominous 
to  Reilly:  it  was  quickening,  encouraging,  hostile  to 
inertia;  it  came  somewhence  and  was  going  somewhither. 
It  forbade  you  to  sink  back  and  rot  in  your  own  stagnancy. 
As  for  Madge,  it  smoothed  away  the  headache  with  which 
she  had  waked  from  a  not  very  successful  sleep. 

Madge  still  wore  white,  and  if  Mrs.  Benner  had  trimmed 
the  big  shade  hat,  she  had  at  least  done  her  groping  best. 
Madge  would  have  nothing  on  it  but  the  wide  soft  ribbon 
twisted  into  a  bow  in  front,  and  Mrs.  Benner  had  looped 
the  black  folds  in  canny  imitation  of  a  hat  that  had 
alighted  (the  owner  in  quest  of  shoe  laces)  from  a  Packard 
limousine.  The  only  color  in  her  costume  was  Jee  Gam's 
bit  of  jade  lying  on  her  breast.  But  Madge  herself  sup 
plied  color  besides :  for  all  her  youth,  she  rose  against  the 
rich  unbroken  green  of  summer  with  a  hint  of  autumn 
ripeness.  Her  hair  and  eyes  were  deeply  brown,  and  there 
was  a  fainter  brown  beneath  the  healthy  crimson  of  her 

437 


LOST  VALLEY 

cheek.  Only  her  slimness  reminded  you  that  she  was 
neither  autumn  nor  summer,  but  spring.  Her  passivity, 
too,  was  youth's  own:  the  passivity  of  the  creature  who 
does  not  quite  dare,  yet,  to  lay  a  coercive  finger  on  events. 

They  made  themselves  comfortable  beneath  the  beech 
boughs,  and  stared  across  the  valley  at  the  thrust  of 
Roundtop. 

"I  wonder,"  Madge  said  suddenly,  "which  picture  it 
is  you've  brought.  Whether  it's  Lost  Brook,  or  the  view 
across  from  the  pass." 

Reilly  chuckled.  "I  could  tell  you.  But  I  think  you'd 
better  wait  until  your  curiosity  moves  you  to  unpack  it 
and  see." 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  lazy,"  she  confessed.  "It's  so  much 
more  convenient  to  leave  it  the  way  it  is,  until  I  know 
where  I'm  to  store  it.  I  could  never  do  it  up  again  so  well." 

"It's  enchanting  of  you  to  be  so  practical.  I  do  like  a 
sensible  woman,"  he  drawled. 

He  had  wondered  if  she  would  ask  him  what  he  had 
stayed  over  to  talk  to  her  about.  Now  he  saw  that  she 
never  would.  And  that  was  a  good  omen,  too.  Not  that 
he  was  going  to  make  conversation  of  this  idle  sort  for 
very  long !  But  he  must  give  her  a  little  time. 

"No,  I'm  not  very  sensible.  Miss  Martin  is.  Didn't 
you  like  her?"  She  smiled  as  she  thought  of  those  two 
individualities  at  grips. 

"Sarah  is  a  woman  in  a  thousand,"  he  affirmed.  "She's 
got  all  the  virtues  you  haven't  and  probably  never  will 
have.  She's  a  real  highbrow — which  you  aren't — and 
she's  a  woman  of  the  world.  Which,  again,  you  aren't." 

"Ah,  don't  make  fun  of  her!  I  don't  mind  your  making 
fun  of  me.  But  I  mind  it  about  Miss  Martin." 

"I  wasn't." 

"Yes,  you  were.  Sarah  Martin  can  stand  it.  But  you 
can't.  I  mean:  if  you  don't  see  what  a  thoroughly  good 
438 


LOST  VALLEY 

and  wise  person  she  is,  it  means  there's  something  lacking 
in  your  intelligence.  I'd  so  much  rather  think  you  were 
intelligent." 

"  I  see.  She's  a  test  case — like  Shakespeare  or  the  Venus 
of  Milo  or  a  Beethoven  symphony.  Well,  comfort  your 
self,  my  child.  Miss  Martin  is  great  art.  I  swear  it." 
Then  his  tone  roughened.  "  Don't  pretend  you  think  I'm 
a  fool.  You  know  perfectly  well  I'm  not.  But  if  you  can't 
get  rid  of  some  of  your  disgusting  pride,  I  shall  have  a 
few  comments  to  make  on  you.  It's  all  very  well  to  stick 
up  for  this  quarter  section  of  yours,  but  it's  too  silly  to 
pretend  that  the  rest  of  the  world  doesn't  amount  to 
anything.  There  are  places  just  as  beautiful  as  Lost 
Valley,  Madge  Lockerby,  and  people  outside  of  Siloam 
who  are  just  as  good  as  Sarah  Martin.  In  point  of  fact, 
there  are  places  that  are  more  beautiful  and  people  that 
are  better.  I  hate  you  to  sit  here  and  *  boost'  as  if  you 
were  a  real-estate  agent  in  a  boom  town.  It's  unworthy 
of  you." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that.  .  .  ."  Madge  was  humble. 
"I  think,  last  spring,  I  did  think  too  much  of  the  Valley. 
I  tried  so  hard  to  have  something  to  be  proud  of  that  I 
exaggerated.  I  can  see  its  ugliness  and  its  faults  and  its 
diseases.  It's  no  place  to  stay  in — except  for  somebody 
like  Jake  Leffingwell,  and  perhaps  he  won't  want  to  stay 
forever.  But  it  is  lovely,  all  the  same;  and  you  could 
take  me  to  the  Alps,  and  I'd  still  say  so." 

"Very  well,"  he  answered  quietly.  His  face  had  set 
in  new  lines.  "That's  a  bargain.  I'll  take  you  to  the 
Alps,  and  you  can  still  say  so." 

Madge  hah9  turned  her  head  to  look  at  him,  to  study 
out  the  message  of  that  new  tone;  but  embarrassment 
overcame  her,  and  she  turned  away  again  before  she  had 
seen  his  face.  Behind  the  shelter  of  her  wide  hat -brim, 
she  permitted  her  lip  to  tremble.  A  great  disquietude 

29  439 


LOST  VALLEY 

was  upon  her.  She  wanted  to  run  away,  she  wanted  to 
lift  her  voice  and  tell  him  to  go,  to  stop  talking  to  her, 
not  to  try  to  involve  her — and  she  did  not,  meanwhile, 
want  to  leave  his  side.  There  was  a  strange  inward  de 
light  in  being  uplifted  on  that  quiet  slope  with  Desmond 
Reilly,  resting  the  eye  on  the  cunning  perspectives  of 
valley  and  mountain.  But — not  if  he  would  talk  .  .  . 
like  that.  Was  it  always  to  be  so:  that  she  no  sooner 
had  something  to  her  mind  than  it  shifted  and  changed? 
She  was  nearly  crying. 

Presently  he  spoke  again;  still  in  that  quiet,  charged 
voice. 

"Look  at  me,  Madge." 

"  I  won't ! "  Her  sharpness  surprised  herself.  She  didn't 
dislike  him.  She  liked  him.  They  could  be  friends.  But 
somehow  he  was  spoiling  it.  He  had  seemed  to  offer  her 
something  that  he  now  seemed  to  be  taking  away.  Be 
tween  dusk  and  dawn  she  had  been  afraid;  but  to-day 
she  had  thought  those  were  only  night  fears.  She  wished 
she  had  Sarah  Martin  by  her  side.  No,  she  didn't.  She 
would  die  if  she  had  Sarah  Martin  by  her  side!  "I 
won't."  She  repeated  it  to  his  silence  over  there  beyond 
her  hat-brim. 

"Oh  yes,  you  will.  I'll  give  you  a  minute  to  think  it 
over.  Then  you'll  have  to." 

"I  will  never  look  at  your  face  again  if  I  don't  choose." 

"No,  of  course  not.    But  you  will  choose." 

"Why  are  you  troubling  me  like  this?  I  was  happy. 
Do  you  always  go  about  trying  to  make  people  unhappy?  " 

"That  is  not  my  own  notion  of  my  role  in  Me,  I  con 
fess.  Did  I  make  you  unhappy  yesterday?" 

"No." 

"Have  I  said  or  done  anything  extraordinary  to-day — 
so  far?" 

"No,  but—" 
440 


LOST  VALLEY 

'Then  would  you  state  your  grievance?" 

"I  can't."    But  her  tone  implied  that  there  was  one. 

"Don't  you  believe,  at  the  bottom  of  your  heart,  that 
I'm  a  good  friend  of  yours?" 

"Yes,  but—" 

"Stop  saying  'but.'  It's  silly.  What  is  the  reason  of 
your  sudden  aversion  to  me?  Aren't  you  a  good  friend  of 
mine?" 

"Yes." 

"Is  there  any  reason  on  earth  why  you  shouldn't  look 
at  me,  as  much  as  you'd  look  at  any  other  human  being 
whom  you  admit  to  be  a  friend  of  yours?" 

"No." 

"Don't  you  think  that  you're  being  extremely  silly?" 

But  that  confession  Madge  would  not  make.  Of  course 
he  could  twist  her  all  up  in  talk.  There  were  some  things 
you  knew,  even  if  they  didn't  go  into  words.  Tones  of 
voice,  for  example. 

A  moment  went  by  without  speech.  Madge  was  con 
fessing  herself  a  fool,  yet  clinging  to  some  awareness 
deeper  than  wisdom. 

Suddenly  Desmond  spoke.  "I'm  sorry.  But  that  hat 
is  in  my  way."  She  felt  it  lifted  from  her  head.  She 
would  not  fight  for  it,  but  she  set  her  face  like  stone. 

Reilly  laid  the  hat  down  carefully  beside  him  on  the 
ground.  Then  he  spoke  with  exceeding  gentleness.  "I 
haven't  said  a  thing  to  you  this  morning  that  any  woman 
could  have  the  right  to  resent,  or  be  hurt  or  in  any  way 
worried  by.  You're  behaving  like  a  willful  child.  I  apolo 
gize  for  taking  that  umbrella  off  your  head.  I  thought  it 
might  help.  You  have  no  excuse  under  God's  heaven  for 
turning  your  head  away  as  if  you  were  a  disreputable 
dryad  and  I  were  a  dissolute  Olympian.  No  excuse  what 
ever.  Now  look  at  me." 

"Shall  you  go  away  if  I  don't?" 

441 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Certainly  not.     Neither  will  you." 

"Will  you  go  away  if  I  do?" 

"I'll  do  no  bargaining  of  any  sort  about  it.  If  you  are 
as  silly  as  that,  at  least  I  refuse  to  imitate  you." 

Madge  was  suddenly  stricken  with  a  new  fear.  Was 
she  just  being  silly?  She  had  felt  as  if  she  were  fighting 
for  her  life.  But  perhaps  she  wasn't.  She  turned  swiftly 
and  looked  at  him.  But  she  managed,  though  she  fixed 
her  eyes  on  his  face,  not  to  see  him :  to  look  at  him  as  you 
look  at  a  blank  wall,  beholding  other  things  with  the 
mind's  eye. 

"Not  my  cheek,  please.  My  eyes,"  Desmond  said 
coolly. 

Madge  saw  it  then  as  something  inevitable.  Indeed, 
she  was  becoming  calmer,  and  more  than  a  little  ashamed 
of  herself.  She  lifted  her  eyes  and  looked  into  his,  and 
trembled  with  the  intensity  of  her  effort  not  to  lose  her 
self  in  perusal  of  them. 

"That's  better."  He  smiled.  "You  see  it  can  be  done. 
Look  away  now  if  you  want  to.  I'm  sorry" — his  voice 
returned  to  gentleness — "but  I  think  you  had  to  do  it 
before  you  could  be  natural  again.  You  were  creating  a 
situation  that  didn't  exist.  You  were  pretending  to  your 
self  that  I  was  a  nuisance*  or  that  you  were  afraid  of  me, 
or  something.  Of  course  I  don't  know  exactly  what.  I 
might  be  a  nuisance,  or  a  source  of  terror;  but  your  own 
common  sense  will  tell  you,  child,  that  it  wouldn't  be  for 
long.  If  I  really  bored  you  or  frightened  you,  that  is, 
you  could  absolutely  count  on  my  going  away  promptly 
and  never  coming  back.  Now  are  we  friends  again?" 

Her  shame  was  complete  now.  He  had  been  very 
considerate — except  about  the  hat. 

"Yes,  we're  friends."  She  spoke  quite  naturally. 
"Please  give  me  my  hat." 

"Not  just  yet,  if  you  don't  mind.  I  don't  trust  that 
442 


LOST  VALLEY 

• 

hat.  It's  monstrous  big;  and,  I  suspect,  crammed  with 
evil  intentions."  He  tossed  it  lightly  back  among  the 
trees.  Then  he  rose  to  his  feet.  He  gave  Madge  a  hand, 
and  she,  too,  rose.  But  immediately  she  sought  a  straight 
tree  bole  to  lean  against. 

"Now  that  we  have  begun  to  talk  again,"  Reilly  said — 
he  did  not  look  at  her;  he  was  pacing  the  ground  with 
short  slow  steps,  and  his  eyes  searched  the  bunch  of  gray 
fungus  at  his  feet — "suppose  I  say  at  once  what  I  came 
up  here  particularly  to  say.  I  came  to  Lost  Valley  to  ask 
you  to  marry  me."  A  pause.  .  .  .  "Now,  I  have  asked  you 
to  marry  me." 

Madge  strove  to  clutch  and  hold  some  one — any  one — 
of  the  thoughts  that  raced  dizzily  through  her  mind. 
But  every  one  of  them  eluded  her  and  danced  on.  When 
people  asked  you  a  question,  you  had  an  answer  ready. 
She  had  no  answer.  All  she  knew  was  that  she  wanted  to 
run  away  and  didn't  want  to  run  away;  that  this  was  the 
most  exciting  thing  that  had  ever  happened  to  her  and 
that  it  was  also  the  most  trying — that  a  demand  as  big 
as  the  world  had  been  made  of  her  and  that  she  could 
only  think  of  little,  little  things.  Confusion  could  go  no 
farther.  A  year  hence  she  could  have  dealt  with  it,  one 
way  or  the  other.  It  was  cruel  to  make  her  deal  with  it 
now.  She  wanted  her  hat,  and  she  could  no  more  reach 
it  than  if  it  were  a  mile  away.  .  .  .  The  west  wall  of  the 
Breens'  cow  barn  was  beginning  to  sag  dreadfully.  .  .  . 
The  tree  she  was  leaning  against  had  a  knot  in  it  that  hurt 
her  back.  And  she  had  to  say  something. 

"I  don't  know  you,  really — not  a  bit  well."  Her  voice 
was  small  and  strangled. 

"My  dear,  if  people  waited  until  they  knew  one  another, 
only  octogenarians  would  marry.  It's  a  chance;  it's  a 
big  chance;  but  people  always  have  to  take  it." 

"People  can  be  friends  a  long  time  first." 

44S 


LOST  VALLEY 

"Some  people  can.    I  couldn't." 

"What  makes  you  think  you  want  to  marry  me?** 
There  was  no  coquetry  in  the  question:  only  honest 
groping  after  comprehension,  as  Desmond  saw. 

"I  don't  think:  I  know.  In  ten  years  I  could  know  no 
better." 

"I  like  you,  but—" 

"Of  course  you  like  me.  I  wouldn't  be  here  if  you 
didn't.  I  would  either  never  have  come,  or  have  gone 
away  at  once." 

"But  I  don't  know  you  well  enough,"  she  protested. 
"How  can  I  tell?  If  I  could  see  you  now  and  then,  I 
might  know  better.  I've  never  had  a  chance  to  think 
about  marrying  you." 

"You  never  will  have  any  chance  but  this,"  he  answered 
grimly.  "I  don't  want  any  trying — any  *  making  up  your 
mind.'  Unless  you  want  me,  I  don't  want  you."  It  took 
much  self-control  for  Desmond  to  say  this  so  quietly,  for 
at  that  moment  he  felt  that  he  wanted  her  regardless — 
sharply,  definitely,  overwhelmingly.  But  Desmond  was 
the  stuff  of  which  some  very  successful  ascetics  have  been 
made. 

"You  ask  me  something  I  don't  know."  Irritation 
mounted  faintly  in  her  voice.  "I  might  come  to  love 
you " 

"Nothing  doing.  You've  got  to  choose  now  between 
seeing  me  always  and  never  seeing  me  again.  And  it's 
not  words  that  will  tell  you  which  you  want,  either. 
You  don't  seem  to  realize  that  I've  done  some  thinking 
on  this  subject,  myself.  If  I  know,  you  can  know.  If 
you  prefer  to  get  on  without  me,  that's  up  to  you.  I'd 
never  blame  you,  God  knows." 

"It's  cruel  of  you  to  threaten  me." 

"  I'm  not  threatening  you.  Either  you  want  me  or  you 
don't.  That's  a  fundamental  thing.  Months  of  talk 
444 


LOST  VALLEY 

won't  settle  it.  If  you  don't  want  me  now,  you'll  never 
want  me — not  the  way  I've  got  to  be  wanted.  We're  not 
in  a  silly  drawing-room.  We're  out  here  between  sky  and 
earth,  on  the  everlasting  hills.  That's  where  a  man  and 
a  woman  ought  to  be  able  to  know  if  they  want  each  other 
for  all  time." 

Reilly  was  standing  directly  before  her  now;  his  face 
was  white,  and  his  green  eyes  gleamed  like  jade-stones 
set  in  porcelain.  He  recognized  her  trouble,  her  appeal. 

"Madge,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  help  you.  I  truly  do. 
There's  only  one  thing  I  can  think  of,  to  be  fair  to  both 
of  us.  Anything  I  say  apparently  only  confuses  your 
mind  the  more.  I  could  make  you  marry  me — I  could 
talk  you  blind.  But  I'm  damned  if  I  will — yet!  I  could 
go  away  now,  this  instant,  and  leave  you  to  think  it  over 
alone-.  But — I  should  never  come  back,  and  you  just 
might  be  sorry.  You  said  yesterday  that  you  trusted  me. 
Just  hold  on  to  that,  for  a  minute.  Hold  on  hard." 

He  stepped  nearer  to  her,  saw  her  eyes  move  as  he 
moved,  clinging  to  his  face,  saw  them  cloud  as  he  came 
very  near.  His  white  face  hung  over  her  without  a 
smile.  He  held  out  his  arms.  "Madge,  will  you  let 
me  kiss  you?" 

She  nodded,  dazed,  half  blind  with  tears. 

After  a  long  moment,  he  let  her  go,  as  gently  as  he  had 
taken  her.  She  was  his,  and  she  knew  it.  Desmond  knew 
it  too,  but  it  would  not  have  been  possible  for  him  to 
pursue  his  triumph.  He  would  have  died  in  his  tracks 
rather  than  take  the  next  initiative.  That  must  be  hers, 
whether  by  speech  or  gesture. 

Indeed,  Madge  had  no  trouble  now.  Her  brain  was 
swimming  still,  but  she  knew.  The  conviction  of  the 
whole  woman  had  come  to  her.  She  laid  her  hand  in  his 
— not  so  much  realizing  that  he  was  waiting  for  a  sign 
as  seeing  no  reason  why  then*  hands  should  be  divorced. 

445 


LOST  VALLEY 

And  the  gesture  was  easier  than  speech.  They  remained 
silent,  hand-fast,  for  a  moment,  then  sat  down  beneath 
the  tree  against  which  she  had  seemed  to  stand  at  bay. 

Madge  drew  up  her  knees,  clasped  her  arms  about  them, 
and  gazed  out  over  the  Valley.  Desmond  stole  a  glance 
at  her  beneath  his  lashes,  bit  a  smiling  lip,  and  then 
slowly  lighted  a  cigarette.  Her  natural  withdrawal,  after 
her  natural  surrender,  suited  the  solitary  spirit.  He  would 
have  liked — he  knew  just  how  much  he  would  have  liked 
— to  continue  making  love  to  her  on  their  hilltop,  but  he 
was  soothed  in  the  sensitive  recesses  of  his  being  by  her 
meditative,  oblivious  posture.  This  was  his  woman:  he 
had  made  no  mistake.  "Conversation  is  now  indicated," 
he  muttered  to  himself. 

"Oh — what  did  you  say?"  Madge  turned  to  him  so 
licitously. 

"I  said  that  I  thank  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart 
for  the  honor  that  you've  done  me."  He  lifted  her  hand 
lightly  and  kissed  it.  "And  since  I  have  to  go  away  to 
night,  we've  got  to  have  a  famous  talk  about  plans." 

"Not  to-night,  Desmond!  No!"  She  turned  to  him 
with  eyes  full  of  trouble.  "I — I  don't  understand  things 

yet." 

"I'll  make  you  understand  things  sufficiently  before  I 
go.  But — no,  I  see  what  you  mean.  You  need  a  little 
perspective  on  the  fact  that  you've  sold  yourself  into 
bondage.  You  want  to  see  me  to-morrow  as  well  as 
to-day." 

"Yes,  to  make  sure." 

His  eyes  narrowed.  "You're  not  going  to  begin  that  all 
over  again?" 

"No — I  don't  mean  that.    Only  to  make  sure  that  it's 
really  true.     That  you  want  a  girl  like  me.     That  you 
want  a  wife  from  Lost  Valley!"    There  was  a  little  thrust 
of  bitterness  in  her  tone. 
446 


LOST  VALLEY 

"My  dear" — Desmond's  voice  trembled  a  little  among 
the  lower  notes — "don't  you  realize  that  I'm  hanging  on 
to  myself  to  keep  from  frightening  you  to  death?  You're 
not  a  simple  proposition — you're  so  uncivilized."  He 
bent  his  cheek  down  and  laid  it  against  her  hand  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  raised  his  head.  "I  quite  see  what 
you  mean.  You  hadn't  precisely  expected  me.  You 
want  to  test  it  out;  wake  up  to-morrow  morning  and  face 
your  fate  in  the  daylight — not  just  a  horrid  unreal  sense 
that  somebody  has  gone  off  into  space  taking  a  promise 
with  him." 

"Yes,  just  that.    You  do  understand." 

"My  dear,  I  understand  so  many  things,  it's  a  wonder 
they  don't  make  me  dictator  of  the  planet.  I'm  a  kind  of 
miracle  of  intelligence.  If  Miss  Martin  will  take  me  in 
again,  of  course  I'll  stay." 

"I'll  drive  over  with  you,  and  tell  her  about  everything," 
Madge  said  happily. 

"I  shall  have  to  go  back  to-morrow,  you  see."  He 
meditated.  "I  have  to  decide  about  South  America. 
Are  you  afraid  of  germs?  This  is  what  it  is  to  take  a 
woman  into  your  permanent  counsel."  Desmond  groaned 
dramatically. 

"Why— I  don't  think  so." 

"Then  we'll  go.  How  delicious  and  bucolic  of  you  not 
to  mind  them!  And  there  are  men  who  marry  educated 
women ! " 

"You  mustn't  say  that.  It  hurts.  Because  I  know 
I'm  not  educated.  And  I'm  not  going  to  apologize  for  it. 
You  forced  this  on  me — " 

"Stop  it,  child!  You  know  perfectly  well  that  I've 
never  hurt  you;  that  I'm  incapable  of  it.  If  I  weren't 
incapable  of  it,  of  course  I  should,  sometime.  Just  because 
I  jeer  at  women  who  cover  over  all  the  intelligence  they 
lack  with  a  college  degree,  you  take  me  up  like  that! 

447 


LOST  VALLEY 

Wasting  my  time,  which  is  short.  ...  So  you  will  go  to 
South  America  with  me?'* 

"I  suppose  it  depends  on  when  you  go."  She  might 
protest,  but  she  was  caught,  and  she  knew  it. 

"  I  shall  have  to  sail  next  month." 

"Oh,  but  that's  impossible." 

"Why?"    His  eyes  raked  her  coolly. 

"There  are  so  many  things  to  do." 

"Nothing  at  all,  if  you  don't  choose  to  think  so.  I 
won't  go  and  leave  you  behind,  that's  flat.  And  to-morrow 
I  have  to  say  'yes*  or  'no' — by  telegraph,  since  I  can't 
get  there  myself." 

His  tone  changed.  "There  are  reasons  why  I  think 
the  best  thing  you  and  I  can  do  is  to  take  ship  together 
for  foreign  parts.  I'm  not  very  long  on  what  is  known  as 
psychology,  but  a  bat  could  see  that.  Go  to  some  place 
where  everything  is  necessarily  strange  to  us  both.  Better 
than  beginning  in  New  York — or  Lost  Valley.  I  believe 
in  South  America  for  us.  And  another  thing:  a  long 
engagement  would  be  madness  pure  and  simple — for  you 
and  me.  I  don't  know  whether  you're  a  marrying  woman, 
but  I  am  certainly  not  a  marrying  man.  I  shall  hate  being 
engaged.  .  .  .  And  there's  no  sense  in  acquiring  the  art, 
since  one  isn't  a  fiance  forever.  If  it  weren't  better  for 
you,  too,  I'd  try  to  school  myself.  But  the  sooner  we 
have  the  courage  of  this  gorgeous  conviction,  the  better 
for  both  of  us.  And  then — 'go  rolling  down  to  Rio.' 
That's  it!" 

"Don't  you  think  I  might  be  consulted,  just  a  little?" 

"Why  on  earth  should  you  be,  my  dear?  You're  will 
ing  to  marry  me.  The  rest  is  detail — of  the  utmost 
unimportance." 

"If  it's  so  unimportant,  why  shouldn't  I  have  my  way, 
and  take  a  longer  time  over  it?" 

"Because  I  have  to  sail  next  month  if  I  go." 
448 


LOST  VALLEY 

"But  I  could  wait  for  you,  here." 

"  Wait  and  let  your  ancestral  devils  resume  you?  Cer 
tainly  not.  If  you  don't  go  with  me,  I  don't  go.  But  even 
that  won't  drag  me  into  a  long  engagement." 

"I  am  always  to  do  just  as  you  say,  then?" 

He  swung  about  and  took  her  hand  in  his.  Then,  as  a 
point  of  honor,  he  let  it  go,  and  folded  his  arms.  "Let's 
get  to  the  bottom  of  this,  in  all  calmness,"  he  said.  "  Don't 
say  what  you  think;  say  what  you  feel.  If  you  give  one- 
hundredth  part  of  a  thought  to  anyone  or  anything  but 
yourself  and  me,  you're  not  playing  the  game.  Letting 
the  world  go  hang,  answer  me  one  thing.  Do  you,  or  do 
you  not,  belong  to  me?  I  want  nothing  but  the  truth." 

Madge  closed  her  eyes  and  tried  faithfully  to  let  the 
world  go  hang.  She  did  her  best  to  burrow  down,  beneath 
accidentals,  to  the  most  fundamental  feeling  of  all. 
It  was  not  easy.  All  she  really  discovered  was  that 
life  would  now  seem — since  an  hour  ago — intolerable 
without  Desmond  Reilly.  But  she  pushed  on  faintly  just 
far  enough  to  see  that  that  conviction  carried  with  it 
corollaries.  "Yes,"  she  said  slowly.  "I  suppose  I  do." 

"Well,  then,  you've  got  to  take  my  word  for  a  certain 
number  of  things — as  I  shall  always  unquestioningly  take 
yours.  Every  decision,  made  by  either  one,  is  a  decision 
made  by  both.  Otherwise,  we're  only  caged  animals  in 
a  zoo,  mated  at  the  say-so  of  the  keeper.  If  you  belong 
to  me,  it's  settled.  The  other  things  don't  matter.  I'm 
the  one  just  now  who  can  judge  best  what  makes  for  our 
common  convenience.  Just  as  in  certain  very  important 
matters,  I  shall  belong  to  you  rather  than  you  to  me." 

He  looked  deep  into  her  eyes  and  smiled  quietly. 
"Can't  you  take  my  word  for  it  that  I'm  saving  us  both 
trouble?" 

The  answer  was  some  time  in  coming,  but  it  came  at 
last.  "Yes." 

449 


LOST  VALLEY 

"All  right,  then.  I'll  go  down  to-morrow,  and  we'll  be 
married  next  week.  No  fetish  about  it.  Just  the  decent 
and  legal  minimum.  I  suppose  you  have  parsons  in 
Siloam.  It's  divinely  tactful  of  you  to  come  from  a  state 
that  demands  no  prior  residence  on  the  bridegroom's 
part." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"I  found  out,  of  course.  It  only  took  five  minutes. 
And  it  was  well  to  .be  prepared." 

"You  were  very  sure,  weren't  you?" 

"No,  I  wasn't  in  the  least  sure — as  far  as  your  answer 
was  concerned.  What  I  was  sure  of  was  that  I  could  tell, 
fairly  soon,  whether  we  were  the  right  people  for  each 
other.  Whether  I  was  as  right  for  you,  that  is,  as  you 
for  me.  And  if  I  once  determined  that,  I'm  afraid  I 
shouldn't  have  let  any  play-acting  of  yours  stand  in 
the  way." 

"What  would  you  have  done  about  it?" 

"Unless  I'd  been  quite  certain,  I  should  have  done 
nothing.  If  I  had  been  quite  certain  .  .  .  well,  I  had  per 
fected  no  plan,  but  I  should  have  done  it,  all  the  same. 
I  admit  that  it  would  have  been  a  difficult  business;  but 
I  should  have  done  it.  Knocked  you  on  the  head,  in  the 
end,  perhaps." 

"You  would  never  have  done  that,  Desmond." 

"Not  unless  I  were  very  sure  it  was  for  your  best  good. 
If  I  were  sure,  you  can  bet  I'd  have  done  it — though  I'd 
have  hated  to.  But  there's  one  thing  you  can  be  sure  of: 
that  if  I  had  made  such  a  gesture,  and  then  found  that 
you  didn't  want  me,  I'd  have  put  myself  out  of  the  world 
before  sundown.  And  I  wouldn't  have  left  the  corpse  on 
your  hands,  either." 

Madge  laughed.    "I  think  the  most  remarkable  thing 
I  ever  knew  is  the  fact  that,  somehow,  in  spite  of  every 
thing,  I'm  not  afraid  of  you." 
450 


LOST  VALLEY 

"How  could  you  be  afraid  of  me?"  he  asked  with  the 
simple  wonder  of  a  child. 

"I  feel  pretty  sure  that  some  people  have  been." 

He  tossed  his  bright  head.  "Not  the  people  I  married. 
They  were  never  afraid  of  me.  Not  even  ten  thousand 
years  ago.  I  was  cave-broke  ahead  of  my  clan.  That's 
because  I  always  married  the  right  woman.  Never  once 
in  all  the  recurring  generations  have  I  made  a  mistake. 
Of  course,  lots  of  times  I  didn't  marry  at  all.  And  they 
threw  rocks  at  me.  I  always  had  red  hair,"  he  crooned, 
"and  I  never  would  put  up  with  anyone  but  my  mate. 
Now,  by  all  powers!  I've  got  her  again."  He  tucked  her 
hand  into  the  crook  of  his  arm. 

"We  must  go  down  now.  But — couldn't  we  come  back 
at  sunset?  It's  so  lovely  then." 

Reilly  shook  his  head.  "No.  We'll  be  safe  in  Siloam-— 
with  Sarah  Martin.  Not  up  here  at  sunset,  Madge.  Not 
until  we're  married,  at  least." 

"But  why?" 

"I  haven't  got  it  straight  yet.  But  I  know  that 
there's  black  magic  here.  Or  might  be.  And  that  you 
have,  at  some  time  or  other,  skated  a  little  too  near  to 
superstition." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"  From  a  certain  look  in  your  eyes ;  from  a  certain  tone 
in  your  voice." 

"I  do  love  the  Valley.  And  I've  hated  it,  too,  in  my 
time.  But  I'm  not  superstitious." 

"It's  very  lovely.  But  it's  done  for.  If  it  ever  comes 
to  life  again,  it  will  be  under  the  hands  of  a  new  race." 

"You  don't  know  what  Jake  Leffingwell  may  do. 
There's  no  Lawrence  land,  or  Burton  land,  or  Mellen  land 
in  the  Valley  any  more.  But  there's  Lockerby  land. 
And  I'm  glad.  I'm  glad!" 

He  smiled.  "Therefore  you  may  not  come  back  to 

451 


LOST  VALLEY; 

Barker's  Hill  at  sunset.  Love  Lost  Valley,  Madge — I'll 
not  deny  you.  But  love  me  more." 

She  stopped  a  moment  to  look  about  her.  High  noon 
lay  on  Barker's  Hill.  It  was  the  least  romantic  hour  of 
the  day.  The  season  had  already  wearied  of  temperance, 
and  the  Valley,  shut  off  from  the  wind,  sweltered  below 
them  in  hot  undress.  Of  what  made  up  its  beauty,  there 
were  left  only  the  unchanging  contours  of  the  hills,  and 
color  now  intense  to  crudeness  beneath  the  swarming  heat 
rays.  Madge's  cloud  of  witnesses  was  far  withdrawn. 
She  heard  no  whispers  of  the  dead. 

"But  it  is  beautiful,"  she  said  slowly. 

"Of  course  it  is,  Galileo.  And  Carthage  must  be  wiped 
off  the  map.  Never  question  a  platitude.  Admit  it,  and 
forget  it.  Us  for  the  Equator!" 

"Do  you  know  what  Jee  Gam  said  to  me?" 

"Of  course  I  do.    What  was  it?" 

"'The  way  that  can  be  walked  upon  is  not  the  perfect 
way.'  I  wonder  if  I  know,  even  now,  just  what  he  meant." 

"I  do.  He  meant  that  you  can  walk  all  over  me,  and 
I'm  by  no  means  perfect." 

Madge  laughed.  "I  don't  think  he  thought  he  meant 
that.  But  I'm  not  sure  it  isn't  exactly  what  he  did  mean, 
after  all.  At  least,  as  far  as  it  concerns  me." 

They  started,  arm-in-arm,  down  the  steep  slope  of  the 
pasture  to  Lockerby's.  The  weakened  breeze,  disdaining 
to  accompany  them,  remained  on  the  height,  but  they 
hardly  missed  it  as  they  descended,  well  content,  into  the 
burden  and  heat  of  the  day. 


THE  END 


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